Warcraft: The Third War
by OmegaTrooper
Summary: My recountings of the Third Great War through the eyes of it's heros, villans, and victims, of the conflict. From the first battles to the last embers of hate, the Third War rages across Azeroth, consuming everything in its path...
1. Prologue

Authors Note: This will be a story wholly about the Third Great War. It will stay linear to the storyline of Warcraft 3: Reign of Chaos, yet will also go beyond the basic plot of the games as it is my own story of how the Third War unfolds and rages. If anyone has any suggestions on cultures, weaponry, armor, tactics, histories, locations, (etc) you can email me at as any hints, tips, or suggestions would be greatly appreciated! All characters are Blizzard's except for those that I have created. And now Azeroth shall face its darkest days yet, as the Great War of Chaos starts…Let loose the dogs of war!

**The Third War**

**Prologue**

Dalaran, Cross Isle, Autumn, Year 614 of the Light

The land was stained with the blood of men. Such stains had seemed to take to the sky as well, as it too turned a crimson pigment that mirrored the death of mortals.

Great citadels, standing for thousands of years, surrounded by a massive arcane-enchanted stone wall; many had fallen this hour; the darkest of hours. The symphony of destruction played its part everywhere the fight took it.

Once again, the land was besieged by conflict.

Above in the nearly undisturbed skies, the great shadow hung over them all. Only the greatest noticed it, and too late was their realization. From the north the undead Scourge had wiped across the land, taking those living and turning them into twisted mockeries of life that served their Dark Lord without consent. And such a distraction was all that was needed by the Lords of the demonic legions from beyond the world.

It was their time once again to besiege the world and bask it in their unholy glory. Time had finally come upon them as they passed through the great warps in reality that their earthen subservients had managed to create.

Despite the work of the Guardians of Tirisfal to ward them from the mortal realm for these thousands of years, the tides of darkness had returned, and the Reign of Chaos had begun…

Ruins of Caer Darrow, Quel'thalas-Lordaeron Border, End of Winter, 612, Two years earlier

The palpable silence filled the cold, dank air. Only the dripping of water was to be heard within the cavernous labyrinth of tunnels under the ancient ruins above.

It was in these dark tunnels that he had set to his task, assigned by the master. He had taken to zeal with his task, and quickly returned to this land to rally those who might listen to the callings of the great Lord.

And it was so that the Cult of the Damned had begun, spreading slowly, quietly, like a thin rattler snake in the blue-green grass of the Arathi-Highlands. It was here that he, Kel'thuzad Amar, had set the base to his work, the world oblivious to his and the Cult's existence.

Once, so long ago now, he had been the aspiring mage of Dalaran, the Land of Magic, home of the Wizard. He was a prodigy whom had risen through the ranks like the few others had before him. He had reached even into the Violet Citadel, into the Council of Air, before the truth had been revealed to him. As a prestigious wizard of rank he had accumulated a wealth that would make anybody happy, yet…

It was during the Second War against the orcish Horde that he had seen the true way of things. In those bleak times he had witnessed the true potential of magic, in the arts that the foolish, squeamish mages of the Violet Citadel had utterly shunned; the magnificent art of necromancy.

_Necromancy!_

The magic of trapping the blackness from the Great Dark Beyond and harnessing its infinite energy, to bring life back to those whom had been dead, in true words, the Art of the Dead.

Kel'thuzad Amar, he, had been so impressed with these magics that the demon-possessed orcish warlocks used, that against the strict will of the Council of whom had ordered him never to delve into the dark magics, had committed the so called crime anyway and began to dabble with its untapped potential secretly.

Yet the art had required so much of him, and he had not the power to fulfill its true potential, even as such a powerful wizard as he; at least, until the day he had heard the great Culling. It was the great thing that he had been searching for all these years, its tendrils of power calling out to those powerful enough to come to it, to serve it, to bask in its eternal glory. Here, he saw the ability to tap his true potential in the dark arts, and gain ultimate power next to the Caller whom had sent its culling across the land.

And so he had set his journey, resigned from the paranoid and fearful Council of Air and left the weak Dalaran for the last time as one of their mages. The trek was long, and over the months he found his way to the lands of northern Lordaeron, where he was able to procure a ship for his own ends. Once he had the transportation he was able to travel to the place where the power had first called from, the icy recesses of Northrend, a place so cold and desolate that it chilled to the bone whatever human set eyes on it.

But not he! Urged on by the promise of eternal power and paradise he saw the land as something near holy, it as home to the unbelievable power that had called out. And across this Promised Land he traveled for a long time, many times near death by his lonesome. But he had used his wit and skill of magic to keep him alive, to traverse the dark, unexplored, land.

For many weeks he traveled the cold land with naught but lowly servants paid for by his wealth, of whom slowly one by one died from exhaustion and the subzero temperatures. And as the days passed into weeks he discovered the ancient ruins of Ajol'Nerub, an intricate and fascinating ancient city created by some kind of long lost race, and witnessed the full glory of the Caller's armies, the undead beings so perfectly reanimated patrolling the ruins of the city and land with utter efficiency.

The day finally arrived, after what seemed like an eternity of ice and inky dark skies, that he arrived upon the spot that the power had culled him too. A great spire of ice, rising out of the glacial desolace that was the land. And upon the spire shot forth a brilliant blue light of unparalleled magic that reflected something of what was inside.

As he approached, the great voice called out to him again, and proclaimed itself to him. It displayed its power through magic and through might. Through both the beasts of the north whom he had enslaved with his mind, and how he directed them to battle as his armies.

The Lich King…that was the name of his new master. The Lich King told him of his plans, to spread the great wave of blackness across the world. Kel'thuzad's heart yearned for a position in the new order that this great Lich King told him, and for the power already shown and promised to him.

And so it was he was charged with the task of paving the way for the grand ascension of his Lich King; he was to gather a group of servants, loyal only to the Lich King.

And so Kel'thuzad returned to the lands of Lordaeron, and spread across the land the gospel of the Lich King. Forming this religion of the damned as he was commanded by the Lich King, Kel'thuzad came here to Caer Darrow to prepare for this war, the coming of _his _Lord. It was the Cult of the Damned that would first pave the path for the undead forces which would soon advance over this land.

Kel'thuzad sported sunken eyes, not from hunger or malnutrition, but from the feedback of his newfound power. His weathered, lined face was sported with a great white beard, and he was garbed in the black robes of the Bishop of the Cult.

Caer Darrow…a place of supreme magic; a battle site of the old Second War against the orcish Horde, once a home to the brusque and enigmatic High Elves of Quel'thalas. It was from here that he would base himself, and from here that the Cult of the Damned would spread to more and more of the northern provinces of this land, as it was already doing. The Cult had its agents in nearly every major city in Lordaeron, and their numbers grew daily. Above the secret labyrinth, the noble family of Barov had taken the isle for their own, creating a new thriving town of humans. It would be they who were the first victims of the dread Plague of Undeath created by Kel'thuzad's master.

But they could not be discovered by the authorities, lest they be taken into custody before the plans had come to fruition. If all went according to plan, if all went smoothly, quietly, the grand armies of his master would wash away the life from this world.

"Lord, the third Cauldron is sealed and prepared for transportation across this land" a voice cut through the thick air. To his right stood in the dim light of the stone room his second, Erpwold Dietrich, the so called Grand Inquisitor of the Cult of the Damned and a masterful necromancer.

Kel'thuzad lifted his bony hands from the pale parchment that lay on an ancient oak-wood table afore him. Already they had an overabundance of warriors on the ruins of the old battlefields of the wars that had taken place scant years ago, yet now, this Plague the Lich King had devised would create an even greater thing; something unstoppable, something that no Alliance, nor Horde could stop. It would consist of tens of thousands, nay hundreds of thousands of walking dead, chained spirits, and terrible beasts from beyond the world itself, their force growing every time one of their enemies fell.

"Very well my Vassal. It has been foreseen that our great crusade shall begin in the north of this land. We must move quickly, yet silently to plant the seeds of our enemy's destruction now that we are firmly based" Kel'thuzad rasped explaining to his Vassal the plan laid before him "The first target is here" he then said, pulling out an old piece of parchment that sported a crude map of northern Kingdom of Lordaeron. He pointed to a medium sized hamlet deep in the dense forested lands beyond a small range of mountains. Beneath the mapping of the town was sketched a name, _Andorhol_.

"This town is the main supplier of grain in the land. From its rich fields we shall sow the Plague, which will spread across the land and consume it, for us…" Kel'thuzad ended, dark eyes glowing in anticipation. Soon, the scourging of the land would begin, and the seeds of the future planted.


	2. Chapter 1: Beginnings and Warnings

**ACT 1**

**Chapter 1: Beginnings and Warnings**

Greenfield Plains, southern Alterac, First Day of Spring

The harsh gray eyes looked upon the wilderness with years of experience and wisdom. His men filed up in line as they should have, and prepared for the next battle, none of which could predict when or where.

_Yes, we have the men, now if only we can find this menace before it grows too large to contain…_he thought, reflecting his strict orders from the head of State and the rightful Monarch of the land, King Terenas Menethil II.

He, Uther the Lightbringer, had been assigned to destroy the growing orcish threat in southern Lordaeron, the mightiest human kingdom in the land, its proud heritage stretching back thousands of years, from the age of the Empire of Arathor to the founding of the Principals of the Holy Light to the wars against the unworldly and savage orcish Horde.

Yet he was not of Lordaerel birth, instead coming from the warmer climes of the south, borne of the Kingdom of Azeroth. Azeroth, otherwise known as the Kingdom of Stormwind, had once been the greatest of the seven human nations of Lordaeron, Alterac, Gilneas, Stromgarde, Dalaran, and Lordaeron. In its days of glory it boasted the largest population and cities, its armies thought nigh invincible. It had been cut off from the other six nations of humanity by its remoteness, its location on the southern continent. The grand Stormwind was founded by the last descendants of the bloodline of Arathor, the ancient unified human kingdom, and thus already contained many riches and glories. Many stories of Azeroth's greatness, its vast halls of inlaid gold and ever-shining marble of Stormwind Keep, the glittering spires and pristine churches of the holy city of Northshire, the wealth of the bustling Grand Hamlet, the vast golden farmlands of Westfall, had reached the North over the many years, turning Stormwind into something of a legend.

Yet in all its hundreds of years of lore and history Stormwind had never encountered had had appeared twenty years ago from the uncharted wilderness of the steamy swamps of the Black Morass; the invaders from the east of the vast southern continent that situated Stormwind. At first the ruler of the land, the benevolent King Llane I of the Wrynn Dynasty, had been able to marshal armies enough to hold the invaders back from where they first appeared, near the fetid Swamps of Sorrow and Black Morass. The invaders soon identified themselves as the orcish Horde, a race of green skinned, brutish, some what primitive, violent, blood lusted killers and warriors.

The demon-driven orcs though kept building their numbers, until the grand armies of Stormwind were overrun. The war, later called the First War of Orcish Ascension, utterly obliterated Stormwind. In the end the just and benevolent King Llane was killed in the siege of the capital of Stormwind, and Lord Lothar, commanding general of the nation's armies and blood connected to the throne was bestowed the title of Regent Lord, and had led nearly half of the population of the kingdom in what would later be called the Great Exodus to the northern continent of Lordaeron, where the other six human nations lay placidly in oblivious wait.

Bringing tales of the destruction they had faced at the hands of the Horde, the refugees from Azeroth found safety in the lands of Lordaeron, if only for a time. In scant years the orcish threat had reappeared, their Horde conquering most of the dwarven kingdom of Khaz Modan, forcing the human nations to band together in a grand coven, latter named the Alliance of Lordaeron. The dwarves were quick to join, hateful of the Horde and with most most of their mountainous lands under the control of the barbaric orcs and their allies. Even the brusque High Elves of Quel'thalas decided to partially endorse the Alliance, and later fully join it as their forests were burned down by the out worldly invaders.

What was then called the Second War continued for many years, and hundreds of thousands lost their lives. The battles ranged from southern Lordaeron to remote northern Quel'thalas, and the bloody counter attack back into Azeroth itself, many perishing in the greatest war ever to inflict itself upon the world. Long, blood drenched engagements such as the fly infested Battles at the Thandol Span, the long, starving Siege of the Capitol, the campaigns in Hillsbrad, Southshore, and Tarren Mill, to the terrible stand off at the Battle of Blackrock Spire, and the final bloodshed at the Dark Portal itself had defined the conflict.

The war had finally been won, through skill, luck, and treachery within the enemy, but at such terrible cost. Regent Lord Lothar along with thousands of comrades and the countless dead of the enemy forever were cast into the Great Beyond by the War, but all civilization and good had been saved by the Alliance. Yet in the years to come internal conflicts within began to destroy the Alliance. The strong and integral nation of Gilneas was first to leave, followed by the military force of Stromgarde, and also later the magical High Elves. Yet, King Terenas had managed so far to keep the Alliance intact to its present state, containing the superpower of Lordaeron, the rebuilt Azeroth, the merchant and naval supreme Kul Tiras, and surprisingly the dwarven thanes of Ironforge and its lands.

Skirmishes and threats would continue for years though, as the orcs again rampaged through the Dark Portal many months later, then pushed back to their own home world, the red world of Draenor, where Lord General Turalyon and his forces held their ground, closing off the Dark Portal to save Azeroth as the Draenor itself fell apart around them.

And so due to the heroic sacrifice of all these men and women the world had lived in relative peace, until now.

After the war, only a scant number of scattered orcish clans survived on their own, the bulk of the Horde either slaughtered or captured and placed in the internment camps in southern Lordaeron and Stromgarde. Here they had languished, losing all will to fight, and seemingly live, until a certain orc seemingly pulled them out of the mud in a display of new orcish power that had been dubbed 'shamanism' by the captured and beaten orcs.

Recent uprisings in the orc internment camps had caused much damage to the internment facilities, and soon enough an all out rebellion against the Alliance's forces in the area. The new orcish leader, under the name of Warchief Thrall, led his 'new Horde', and, unlike that of its older predessor, it was much smaller and more agile, striking at many important areas such as the oil fields at Strathholme and the main southern military base of Durnhold Keep, seemingly uncatchable by the local authorities and military alike. And so he, Uther the Lightbringer, first Paladin of the Order of the Silver Hand, had been called upon once again to fight the orcs as he had done in the years past.

The days of peace however, seemed numbered. From the south, orcish threats assailed the land. And to the north, Uther had been watching slowly the advance of a sickness across the land. A plague that had infected a small town stead here or there, killing off inhabitants. He had pushed along with the Kirin Tor for a quarantine of the towns, and if they ever were to cut through the beaurocracy of the matter, might be able to convince Lord Terenas himself.

He strode with power, even under the crushing weight of his plate armor, towards a grouping of tents resting beneath the shade of tall pines and spruces, on the border of a vast field. Various sets of armor were scattered about, weapons piled in neat box formations.

The men, lying on the ground, or sitting against a tree resting themselves after the long hard march north, suddenly jumped up and snapped to attention. They knew who he was: the new commander in charge of the force sent to hunt down the growing menace; Uther the Lightbringer, decorated hero of the First and Second Wars, a living legend.

But Uther didn't think of himself as such, always held his emotions in check, as was his habit and training, unlike his younger, more brash and egoistic self of the past wars, he had mastered the workings and principles of the Light. He had been given command of this force; the First Army, the only standing true standing force of the Alliance at the moment. This army had a proud reputation, celebrated as the first army of humanity unified under a single banner since the time of the old Empire of Arathor, which had more than millennia ago crumbled under the weight of time and splintered into the Seven Nations. It was a living symbol, a testament to the triumph of the greatest enemy the world had ever known, owing no allegiance to any one country, but to the grand Alliance of Lordaeron.

Though a generation had passed since the last great war and the numbers lost replenished the Alliance did not have the armies it once did. When the conscription rates had ended, and peace fallen back upon the hamlets and countryside's, not many other than volunteers were part of the 'official' army, not including local militias, city guard, and Internment Camp Forces.

Those few veteran forces that had remained settled mostly in remote locations and garrisons to help keep peace within the land, and to keep the few rouge orcs which put up pockets of resistance in check, still a problem especially in southern Azeroth.

Five thousand was the number of troops Uther had been told when he departed from the Grand Monastery in the northern Tirisfal Glades of Lordaeron, where for many years he had helped a younger generation of paladins train and prepare for the future. Yet with the new threats rising the military seemed very eager to accept new conscripts and volunteers, bolstering their numbers somewhat.

When he had left the registered numbers accounted for four thousand footmen, seven hundred light cavalry, several dozen general staff, and the rest an assortment of elven priests and sorcerers that insisted on remaining in the Alliance, even after their homeland had pulled out, recognizing that if not for the Alliance, their nation of Quel'Thalas would too, have been overrun. Yet of course, those numbers, taking in that they were nearly a month old, were inadequate and obsolete.

Uther slowly walked through the camp, his armor clinking as he strode heavily, stomping down the green grass and dried leaves, inspecting.

He looked at his aid' decamp with a quizzical look. "Is this it?" he muttered, rich, deep, seemingly mystical voice permeating the quiet air, kempt, and once fiery red beard, now graying bouncing as he spoke. "Is this what we have to combat orcs?" the thought nearly made him double over in laughter. This force would have been destroyed in minutes in the Second War.

Fresh faces meant not much training, especially since a lot of these men were but farm boys or old hands that had enlisted to protect their humble hovels and farmsteads from a growing threat.

The aid, whom had come along with him as did several more knights led by nobles that insisted on 'protecting the poor', as if they cared for the peasants, who probably looked more for their own name of glory in helping defeat the resurgent threat, and a small contingent of twenty or so Home Guard men-at-arms, responded with a helpless shrug.

It was spring, and the men were beginning to shake off the winery pall that had held them in check from moving against the orcs after their futile chase last fall, which probably saved them anyway from utter annihilation in their unready state.

But his enemy…he did not know much about them. _That, _though, Uther would find out soon enough from this army's incompetent commanders, and when he faced them upon the field of battle.

As he continued through the camp he noticed a tall man upon a white stallion moved into his path, adorned in ridiculous, foppish armor, his neck strung with unnecessary forms of wealth and laces.

"Greetings, Uther of Northshire, I am Georges Penwright, Field Marshal of the First Army" the golden emblazoned general said with a tone of arrogance, but respect, as he introduced himself, blazing red hair almost outshining his own armor in the rays of light. "This is my second, Lord General Anduin Praeton" he then said, pointing to a much more properly dressed man, whose front carried the Golden Lion of Azeroth emblazoned in his tabard.

"Greetings General. I see the unreadiness of this army, and am truly worried. I have read that you yourself fought in the campaign at Darrowmere Lake, and distinguished yourself there in 602. Tell me, what is it that ails this army? I hear that the enemy move toward the heart of Alterac, towards Strahnbrad, the chief trading crossroads in the country"

The general noble looked with an indignant gaze towards the men. "These -volunteers- have none of the superior training and discipline of a true army. In the post war years even our equipment has…somewhat fallen into disrepair"

"We shall have to change that. I'll send out couriers for better supply lines as soon as possible. Now, General, you have faced this enemy before. Tell me what you can of them" Uther said, changing the subject to a more important one.

"Well, great Paladin, we face not one, but two enemies. It is utterly confusing, orcish politics, and best left alone, but in our numerous skirmishes last summer we have discovered that a banding of orcish remnant clans have rallied to the last vestiges of the Blackrock Clan's holdings in southern Lordaeron and in the pacified areas around distant Blackrock Mountain, at least so say the reports from the garrisons. Their force is perhaps stronger, but less organized than the Thrall you've heard about.

"We've been unable to figure out who their leader is, but a large cell is operating deep within Alterac, and the Hillsbrad Foothills. The now famous Thrall though…he hasn't been spotted for months. Last reports of him were at the naval bases in the province of Morben, where he claimed several of our navy's ships. His force though, was much harder to contend with. They seemed to avoid the usual targets that the Horde of old attacked, population centers and such, instead focusing only on areas that would harm our efforts to raise and supply armies," the general reported as they walked through the rows of tents.

"Well, if these Blackrock orcs are the ones causing the trouble now, it is them that we must deal with. They have wreaked havoc around the Eastlands, and cannot be allowed to do so any longer. We shall deal with this - Thrall, later" Uther decided, looking north towards Strahnbrad.

_Thrall…what a strange name for an orc, _he thought to himself. Perhaps when they managed to defeat the resurgent Blackrock clan, this Thrall, would prove to be of better mettle.

Off to the east, a horseman galloped along the paved King's Road towards them.

As he arrived, he quickly dismounted and bowed to Uther, handing him a letter with the royal seal upon it. "Milord, I arrived as quickly as I could. The note is from King Terenas himself" the panting man said, then subsiding into the background of men.

_Uther the Lightbringer, General of the First Army and Lord of the Silver Hand,_

_Additional forces are en route to help deal with the orcish forces in the region. Scouts as well as some captured and 'persuaded' grunts confirm the enemy force is much larger than we were primarily led to believe. The paladin and Crown Prince of Lordaeron, Arthas, my son, shall be leading these troops to meet with your own. Take care of my son old friend, and rid these orcs from our land once and for all. _

_Terenas Menethil II, King of Lordaeron_

Uther found himself smiling at the letter. Arthas, his greatest protégé would be meeting them to help destroy the orcs. Uther had taught Arthas from a young age the Principles of the Holy Light, and had himself blessed the boy at the tender age of twelve, fully inducting him into the paladin organization, the Knights of the Silver Hand.

Arthas had proven himself when he successfully destroyed a marauding band of Zul'Aman trolls, which were raiding the Quel'thalas border over the past few years. Yes, Arthas would take his own place as the head of the Knights of the Silver Hand one day, and be the King of Lordaeron. Truly a great thing, but it might have burdened Arthas into trying too hard at times. His protégé was quick of temper, eager, and impatient. But of all the paladins in Lordaeron, Arthas would be the one whom Uther would like to fight beside against this menace the most.

"Good" he spoke up, noticing that the men in camp were returning to duties. He looked directly at the ridiculously armored ex-general of the First Army, who would now be acting as a subordinate. "We move immediately. The enemy must be destroyed before any further loss of life is incurred. I want to destroy these vile orcs once and for all. Break camp!" he shouted out, the men in the vicinity already stacking the tents.

Alterac, Strahnbrad, Early Spring

The newly knighted Valdar Justaxe peered through a spyglass, spotting the massive green orcs in the distance. To the east lay the township of Strahnbrad, several buildings burning. Orcs had overrun the town, and to his disgust and horror, had slaughtered many civilians, rounding the rest up as slaves and Light knew what else.

Valdar was twenty three, the son of a nobleman from a backwater province in northern Lordaeron. Their own family had long been of military tradition, from his own father, Riker Justaxe who fought bravely for Lordaeron in the Second War to his ancestors, who fought against the Continental War a thousand years ago when Stromgarde and Gilneas had drawn Lordaeron into their foolish conflict, to even before. After seeing the horrors of war and coming back missing an eye, a few digits, and some of his mind (or so it seemed), Riker Justaxe had pleaded with his son not to enlist, had broken family tradition by sending Vandar's two younger brothers to study as priests at the churches in the nearby township of Hearthglen. But Valdar refused, because a thousand years of tradition was too important to throw away because of his own father's 'queasiness'.

At the age of fourteen he was squired during the last year of the Second Great War, yet had never seen any combat, only the formal padding of his master's house, the practice ranges, and training courts.

"Lieutenant Justaxe, take four men and ride around the town, see if you can locate the orc camp. The Lightbringer himself will be conducting the campaign against the orcs here, so make sure you don't slip up!" his commander had told him before they departed from Valkeri, a small town to the east, and a crucial base of operation for Alliance forces in the area.

Uther the Lightbringer! The great hero of the Second War, here! Valdar's mind raced at the possibilities, knowing that everything he as a scout and lieutenant of the Light Cavalry Division did was to be the eyes and ears of the army.

His young mind snapped back to the reality of the situation. Putting away the rusty spyglass in a pocket on his armored mount, he tapped the four men scouting with him, quietly informing them that their reconnaissance mission was finished. Valdar was absolutely abhorred by what he saw in the village. Blood stained the cobblestone streets, the few unharmed villagers rounded up into armed camps full of the brute greenskins, forced to do backbreaking and menial labor, while others were warded into nets and sacrificial pits, their fresh blood running as a tribute to the demon lords of the warlocks. Valdar's first thought was to mount up, and charge straight into the camp, to save all the innocents being slowly slaughtered, but the stupidity of the notion struck him before he even had the chance to think of such a thing again.

The gore was absolutely overwhelming. "If I am to be a soldier of Lordaeron, I must prepare my mind for such things" Valdar thought quietly to himself as he led his group back through a small patch of trees to the south of the town.

It didn't take long after they were out of the brush to reach camp, which had been set up less than a league away. Wary of each other, Alliance and orc pickets eyed one another very carefully, making it a little difficult to get back inside the lines, but once they did, Valdar was able to make his crucial report.

"Sir" he began, looking up into the black pits of his commander's eyes "The orcs have dug in around the town, and erected earthworks in certain areas. But it is clear their forces inside the city are weak, but they have a stronger camp around the sacrificial pits to the north of the city. In their main camp, they seem…restless…as if awaiting something momentous to happen"

In the dank tent, his commander nodded, and prodded him with extra questions varying of strength, size, flexibility, the encompassing terrain, and so forth. Valdar answered to the best of his ability, and presented a map of the surrounding areas. Dismissed, Valdar quietly exited the tent to find the camp in a state of frenzy.

One of those whom had followed his command on the scouting party, Thorek Ghent, ran past him, shouting out that the fighting had begun, and that they were led by the great Prince Arthas himself, as well as Uther the Lightbringer. What an importance this fight must be if two of the most holy paladins in Lordaeron had shown up! So it seemed, as Valdar peered across the tree line, the sounds of battle seemingly rising above the forest.

Capitol, Lordaeron

King Terenas felt irked. The debate had gone on endlessly, words ebbing and flowing from and to his mind, reflecting so many other matters that had been called upon of late, and in the past years of recorded history. But it was his responsibility, his duty, his love for the people of Lordaeron that chained him to this uncomfortable chair and position, that kept him restrained with the job of having to solve the problems of millions of other men and women.

The rotund Royal Court was by far the most elegant in all the human nations. A floor of pure marble and precious inset stones, it sported the great golden L rune of Lordearon, surrounded by smaller scribings, the Seals of Andron, and the texts of the Principles of the Holy Light. Golden sunlight bathed the room, giving it an aura of magnificence, as it reflected off the polished floor, lighting the audience chambers above. Outside, it was a beautiful day as the sun shone upon Lordegarde, the capitol of the Kingdom, the great spires jutting out of the land, the pristine halls of the churches dedicated to the Holy Light, the domes of the theaters and bazzars, and the dwellings of peasants and middle-class bourgeoisie.

"We have received reports that the Orcs are on the move again" a voice cut through the light, clear air of the newly brought about spring.

"Certainly the attacks against the internment camps are evidence enough" the Civil Liege of the Southern Provinces spoke out in clear anger, trying to get his case heard for the past few days.

"Agreed, the Horde is on the move" another voice agreed, echoing within the great hall.

"This is absurd! My people shall not stand by and watch as the Horde masses on our very doorstep!" the ambassador from Stromgarde, garbed in it's traditionally elegant silver and red robe exclaimed. Though Stromgarde had pulled out of the Alliance nearly a decade ago, she still her king still held great influence among the Alliance High Command, the nation proving pivotal in the Second War.

As he sat quietly, absorbing the comments thrown back and forth at each other, one elbow resting on the side of his throne, one cradling his forehead, Terenas had heard enough of this. Already he had sent Uther the Lightbringer, his own son, and a large contingent of men, nay, an entire _army_ to deal with the threat, but it seemed not enough to these foolish aids and his fellow Kings. The taxes imposed on the peoples all over the continent in order to rebuild the shattered Kingdom of Stormwind, hold the remaining orcs in the internment camps, and pay for the far off garrisons in places many people had never even heard of were bad enough as it was, the backbreaking tariffs nearly as infuriating as open war itself. Not to mention all the damned issues that were cropping up now.

Suddenly, a new voice, this one as slick as oil slicks on the Northern Coast's ice broke out, seemingly cooling the heated tensions between the ambassadors and aids. "The orcs are NOT our primary concern here. How many times must I repeat myself? King Terenas, you must heed my warning. This plague that has gripped the northlands could have dire ramifications!"

King Terenas glanced up to the second stage gallery to see the patience thinning on the ambassador from the magical magocracy of Dalaran.

"Plague? You wizards are just being paranoid!" someone shot.

Protests and jeers came from the rest of the galleries, each of the officials strongly disagreeing with the Kirin Tor wizard. Somewhere in the background Terenas could even hear laughter.

From the open window at the top of the room, many meters above him, Terenas saw a swift shadow, a black raven, descend upon the room. The magnificent bird perched itself contently upon the floor, catching Terenas's eye for a moment until suddenly, the ever so quiet representative of the noble Barov family, which held much power and esteem among the Court of Nobles and the Parliaments of Justice, stood, bellowed out into the Throne Room "Lets keep all this in perspective. Even if this 'plague' does pose a threat to us, what do you propose we do?"

"It is simple" the wizard replied haughtily "As I have said before, the Kirin Tor is ready to place strict quarantine over the infected villages"; the comment only gaining more anger and shouts for the mage to be ejected from the meeting.

The pent up rage of days of meaningless talks and the insult to the pride of Lordaeron finally aroused the King.

He nearly leaped out of his throne, pointed to the wizard, not noticing his golden breastplate's clinking, "I will not institute _quarantine_ without proof of your claims, Ambassador!" the hall fell silent, his deep voice echoing for a moment before continued "The people of Lordaeron have suffered enough without becoming prisoners in their own land"

Yet, just as he finished his own sentence, the raven, seemingly oblivious to the talks, let out a strange noise, and a green light burst from its breast, and then eyes. The thing grew, and seemed to morph, turning into something completely different. Soon enough, the light was so bright that Terenas had to shield his eyes with his arm, and was dumbfounded when he looked back to where the raven was before, seeing nothing but an old man garbed in tatters, with a single amulet holding in place his cape of crimson and pauldrons of bird feathers upon his slouched shoulders and a large wooden staff in his hand. His entire face, save his mouth and small goatee were covered by his hood, which was the same ember red color as the rest of his outfit.

"Yet" the newcomer began, with what seemed a tired smile "prisoners they are, good King"

Narrowing his eyes, Terenas gazed at the newcomer, feeling a blazing anger at the interruption of things and the stranger's sudden coming. "What is the meaning of this? Who are you!" he said, biting the words off as he spoke.

Instead of answering his question, the man straightened, and replied in a passionately, waving his arms in a desperate wave "Humanity is in peril! The tides of darkness have returned and the whole world is poised upon the brink of war!"

From the galleries the Dalaran wizard shouted out "Enough of this! Guards, remove this madman!" he beckoned for the Royal Guard, who quickly rushed up to the stranger, and clasped his shoulders, pulling the frail old man away. Yet the old man fought back.

"Hear me!" he shouted out, struggling to remain resolute in his stand "The only chance for your people is to travel west…to the forgotten lands of _Kalimdor_"

"Travel west? Are you mad!" along with laughs and estranged faces showered down from the galleries that made up the High Command of the Alliance.

Again the old man began to struggle, as if to say something. The old fellow was certainly mad…powerful, but mad. "Hold Ambassador" he shouted out, his voice silencing the room, and setting the guards to stand up straight "I don't know who you are or what you believe in, but this is not the time for rambling prophets! Our lands _are _beset by conflict, but it shall be we who decide how best to protect our people, now, begone!"

At once the seeming prophet's shoulders slumped, his head dunked, and he uttered to himself, slowly building up into a stronger voice "I have failed humanity once before…and I shall not do so again. If you cannot take up this cup, than I shall find another who will!" and with that, he whirled around, and quietly walked out of the Throne Room, seemingly ethereal.

Once he left, the shouting and arguing began once again inside the grand hall. As the clear sunlight beat down on his hood, the Prophet said to himself, not caring if the guards lined at the walls heard "The warning has been given…their fate is now their own".

And to the north, unknown to almost everyone in the Alliance, the Plague slowly spread across the land, forbearing the dark days to come.


	3. Chapter 2: Tidings

**Chapter 2: Tidings**

Alterac, Strahnbrad, Early Spring

It was now as it should have been all these past years, and he, Zugorre Fleshrender, would keep it so.

It was long ago that the old Horde was broken at the Battle of Blackrock Spire, the combatants dying by the tens of thousands under the crimson sun and falling ashes of the volcano. But the remnants had slowly regrouped over the years, and led by the son of the legendary Blackhand, the first Warchief of the united clans of the Horde, Rend, they found strength once more. The brutal Warchief had somehow managed to secure an alliance with the black dragons around Blackrock Spire, and so they had been able to remake the fortress that it once was, after spending many nights in the dank swamps to the south.

Zugorre was commissioned to take a large garrison of reorganized troops north, to Lordaeron, with the scant warships the Horde had managed to steal or salvage, their entire fleet destroyed in the damnable battle at Crestfall.

And so he departed, taking nearly a fifth of the Warchief's force, 10,000 orc warriors, many being veterans of the past wars, and by raiding some of the harbors around northern Khaz'Modan after a long march, his force had been able to obtain a few capital ships that the Alliance had foolishly had strung up as well as those few ships of the Old Horde's fleet. After a short sea trip the force had disembarked upon the shores of the militant Stromgarde, and made their way north, into the southern Alterac region. But upon the landing many of the troops had been scattered, and were now pinpricked across the southern coasts of Lordaeron.

Though broken, his force continued to push north in their effort to bring strike at the Alliance's weak underbelly which had remained minimally guarded since the end of the war.

"Lok-tar ogar Warlord!" a grunt to his left bellowed out, pounding his meaty green fist across his chest in a sign of respect. "Jubeil'thos's scouts have located a large Alliance army moving towards our location!"

"About damned time! These pinkskins still take far too long to react…just like before…" he muttered to himself, reflecting quickly on the glorious, bloody war that raged across this very same land fifteen years ago. He had hungered for this sort of massive battle again. Already he carried the scars of many battles, the prestige of his clan, but the wrinkles of many years as well.

Behind him, the troops, beginning the feel the onset of the oh-so delicious bloodlust coming over themselves, cheered, but were quickly hushed by the elder orcs, who knew the ways of the world and war better. Many of the host were of a younger generation, bred within the safe confines of the swamps, or the few lingering outposts in the Blasted Lands to the far south, or within the retaken Blackrock Spire, which once taken by the Alliance the first time was quickly abandoned once again, leaving it for the dragons and dwarves, or were the new batch that had come from the home world of Draenor before the Dark Portal shut.

Warchief Blackhand had insisted on keeping the clans separate, as had been the old ways, each given its own area within the newly held lands, and its own voice in the Council of Septs, which had replaced the Shadow Council's gluing aspects, though it was all up the Warchief in the end anyway. His politicking had managed them this far, and Zugorre trusted the great Warchief, who would soon return them to the glory of the old days.

"How strong are their forces?" Zugorre spoke up, voice rough with the strain of old battles long past.

"Four thousand at least commander! A ripe target I do say!" the scout replied, face twisting into a sadistic grin.

Beside him the envoy commander of the remaining Shattered Hand Clan, Jagaz Gutreaper, moved forward, "Let us meet them head on, and with our strength grind through their bones with our teeth this night!" The Shattered Hand, or those whom had barely escaped the four day death throes of Draenor, had had at least a third of its force captured by the policing Alliance forces in the Black Morass, whom then later joined the ignorant and foolish Shaman, Thrall. Jagaz and his forces however, were vital to the effort of the reorganized Horde. The Alliance was simply to powerful for the scattered Blackrock Clan to defeat, and so complete allegiance to Warchief Dal'Rend Blackhand was needed, which Jagaz saw as his way to gain power, and escape the Alliance forces that constantly hunted for his hide, and that of his warriors.

_Typical. _Zugore thought to himself. "Yes Jagaz, we shall fight the pinkskins today! And we shall bathe in their blood! But first, the village of Strahnbrad must be taken. The surrounding area is good defensive country, and we have not the numbers to attack the enemy head on. You shall then move against the humans" he bellowed out.

"Defensive!" Jagaz seemed to be taken aback "We should make the Warchief proud of this day Zugorre, proud of the Horde!" the orc's eyes seethed a seeming red flame, the side effect of the blood curse.

"Battle shall come soon enough Jagaz, but first we must allow the warlocks to initiate the Blood Ceremony. Then, and only then will we have the reignited strength to attack the pinkskins again" Zugorre said, in an overly enthusiastic voice. Jagaz seemed to relish the thought of being rekindled with the powers of full demon-blood, as had all their people in days past. Too many years had gone by without a ceremony. Yet, Zugorre knew they still wouldn't be strong enough to defeat such a force. Appeasing the warlords would have to do for now. He needed every warrior available when the Alliance did come, and oh, they would. For now, Zugorre knew he was on the defensive, at least until he could regroup with the rest of the Horde forces scattered pockets of resistance around the Hillsbrad and Southshore areas.

Long ago Zugorre had managed to control his natural orcish bloodlust, but then the demonic lust had torn asunder his diligence and mastery of himself. That was so long ago…yet the demon's gift to the orcs gave him strength, and primal fury that led him through many battles. Yet since the ending of the disastrous Second War no new blessings of demonic blood had been given to the orcs, and that was partially why Fleshrender and his forces were here. To scout out the countryside, unite with guerilla fighting orcish warriors, and wreak havoc on the 'unprotected' belly of the Alliance.

The human village offered little resistance as the hundreds of orcish warriors poured through its streets, killing, maiming, and torturing the human citizens, splashing their red blood across their body's as symbols of victory. The town's feeble defenses were overwhelmed in minutes. Too long had orcs been hunted by humans. Now it was their turn.

As the day went on the human army approached from the north east, and the orcs and Alliance forces began to engage in minor skirmishes as the warlocks prepared the sacrifices they had found among the village's populace. The demons would have the sacrifices whether they liked them or did not care for them. Zugorre only hoped they still thought of their wayward soldiers whom had failed them before. However, if the great demon lords remembered the orcs and were angered by their failure…then, pain and torture would await the remnants of the orcish race forever, a thought that terrified Zugorre, who always believed he would die a death in battle, a pain that would only last a few seconds, or perhaps minutes. _The ends justify the means though_. Zugorre thought. _When they see that we fight the humans still, still sound victories though our horns, still bathe in the blood of our enemies, and still worship them, then they cannot deny our usefulness to them. _

Once in position in a small basin, Zugorre gave the order for a large detachment of troops to begin assaulting the Alliance's forces before they arrived in full force, to cut them down in piecemeal before they could prepare themselves. Later in the day, around the fourteenth hour, the sounds of a large battle could be heard echoing in the small valleys just to the west of the town; orc battle horns sounded, and marching, screaming, and the whistle of arrows.

A grunt ran up to him just as he reached the ridge, and reported that Jagaz and his force had attacked before the time was ready, and now the town had fallen, the small detachment inside it no match for the larger force of human troops led by the blonde haired, cursed paladin whom had cut down many of his warriors. Zugorre, in a rage, cut down a grunt with his twin axes as he tried to explain what Jagaz Gutreaper had done, whom had given into his bloodlust and assaulting the enemy's camp in the uplands. "Damn that orc to whatever hells the demons hold for him!" he cursed over and over, walking up to the sounds of battle.

In front of him, a wide open field flanked by a pair of forests lay, orc troops assembling in clumps while the shiny armor of the Alliance awaited them at the end of the plain. Suddenly, he was surrounded by grunts, and a lumbering ogre who were moving toward the battle.

Quickly escaping from the throng of troops moving forward towards the colorful pageantry of the enemy's banners, Zugorre's face, though fired up with bloodlust and want to enter the battle himself, carried a huge frown on it. The sacrifices they had picked already would have to do.

As for now though, battle called, and once again the Horde would sound its victories across this putrid land, and make its disgusting owners quiver in fear.

Outskirts of Strahnbrad

"Prince Arthas, Lord Uther requests your presence at the orc encampment immediately!" a shout from the bushes in front of him erupted. Suddenly, a knight, clad in the usual colorful pageantry emerged, bearing a scroll that read only that all forces were to return to the main camp to prepare assault against the enemy.

Brushing back a long strand of golden hair from his dirtied and bloodied face, Arthas Menethil nodded. "Never a dull moment…" he muttered "Let's get moving!"

Though a short distance, Arthas tired quickly. He had come all the way from the Capitol, Lordegarde, where he had been attending to the usual bureaucratic matters of the kingdom, and training under the Holy Light, not to mention that as soon as he had made it to the Alliance camp, he had been sent off to liberate the town of Strahnbrad.

"As if there was much left to liberate…" Arthas sneered, thinking of the flaming town, the smell of death and burning flesh that still hung around him and his men. Though not his first combat assignment, he still felt absolutely sickened and disgusted with the orcs. The most vile of creatures they were indeed, deserving no less than complete purification from the world of Azeroth under the Holy Light. Having always been headstrong, and arrogant, Arthas had always considered his path to be the most correct one. It was something that inspired loyalty in some, and distrust in others.

He had been to young to serve in the Second War, but had proved his worth through several conflicts that had ensued, cleaning up orc holdouts, the campaign into the troll homeland of Zul'Aman, chasing down bandits and renegades, and helping rebuild the shattered kingdom of Azeroth in the deep south. With a tall frame and a heavy build, Arthas looked as much a warrior as a Prince, his eyes a deep emerald green, and garbed armor a deep metallic silver rimmed with gold as bright as his own hair.

As they neared the camp, Arthas spotted Uther, garbed in his full armor, which gleaned in the sunlight, clutching the Book of the Hammer of the Illuminate under his muscular arm. Around him waves of footmen and archers moved about, too and fro towards the gaps between a small glade that lay between the Alliance encampment and the orc forces.

As Uther spotted him, a grand smile sprouted on his face. He bellowed out in his rich voice "Ah, good timing lad! I just sent two of my best knights to parlay with the orc leader. They should be returning shortly".

As if Arthas's timing wasn't good enough, at that moment, two ornately decorated horses galloped in pure terror through the underbrush, and past the camp, covered in crimson blood.

"Damn…these orcs will never surrender" Uther muttered to himself, quickly reciting a prayer to the Light in return for the lives his men gave for the cause.

Anger flaming within, memories fresh of the raped village, Arthas blurted out "Then lets get in there and destroy the damnable beasts! We should hunt them down, and leave none alive!"

Uther shook his head, spoke softly, as the knight whom had guided Arthas to the encampment tended to the two riderless horses. "Remember Arthas, we are paladins. Vengeance cannot be a part of what we must do. If we allow our passions to turn to bloodlust, then we become no less vile than the orcs themselves"

Abashed, Arthas replied in a simple grunt, seemingly crestfallen as a son to a scolding father "Yes, Uther".

Turning towards the unfolding battle, Uther then spoke out, "Now, if you're feeling up to it, I want you to lead the attack on the enemy's right flank"

Surprised, Arthas managed what must have been the biggest smile he had shed in years, "Me? Well, of course!" voice full of giddy excitement he hadn't felt since the expedition into Zul'Aman years ago. Even though the attacks against the guerilla war that the trolls had inflicted upon the long columns of troops eventually took its toll, Arthas had managed to stem the tide of their raids and attacks, fully bottling them up in their homeland. For that victory, he had gained much renown, and had feasted off the fruits of his victory. Another thing to brag about wasn't so bad.

"Glad you're up to it lad. I'll stay here with the reserve and make sure none of the loathsome beasts sneak up on the encampment. I'll join you at the front as soon as you've broken their main battle lines"

Arthas quickly sped away towards the staging area for the next assault. It didn't take long for the Alliance column to get moving past the various stonework's of the base, footmen in gleaming armor pouring into the camp and arming themselves from the barracks with their usual broad and long swords, and a contingent of dwarven riflemen with their ingenious blunderbuss rifles (of which no other country had been able to replicate, even the crafty Gilneans) that had just arrived firing off target shots behind the smithy.

After whipping the troops into place, the march began, and after they made it past the main battle line, they began to march upon a dry, dusty, mud-caked ground that marked the beginning of the Alterac Mountain range, the great behemoths rising up out of the ground like titanic beings. His five hundred men continued the march, quietly though, as to not ascertain the wrath of the orc sentries.

After an hour of the march, Arthas assumed by looking at the maps that they were behind the enemy lines, and the time to come crashing down on them would be now. After checking his own gear, and fastening the bulky armor plates he had come to know and cherish, and would probably know for the rest of his life until he inherited his father's Kingship-Cite set of plates and mail.

After creeping up on the unsuspecting orc flanks, Arthas surveyed the battlefield one last time before he sent his men in. Below the glade separated the two encampments, and Uther's forces fought the honorable battle on two separate plains, the larger of which was closer to Arthas's own forces and the orc stronghold.

Arthas finally let his arm drop, in a signal to begin the attack. The regulars began to march towards the enemy, and then run as they closed in, drawing swords and locking their heavy kite shields as a volley of feather-shafted arrows swept above their heads. As the battle closed, Uther's men began to push as well, and the orcs found themselves in a bind. "Lothar's ghost could not get out of that trap" Arthas thought to himself arrogantly, chuckling as he ran towards the nearest greenskined beast. Leading the men himself, he smashed a much taller orc's skull in with his mighty warhammer with a satisfying, bone crunching _crack!_ as yet more of the men poured past either side of him.

Within minutes, the orcs whom had held up the Alliance forces here for days were dead or scattering into the woods. A few knots fought on, whether out of bravery of bloodlust Arthas knew not, yet in the end they were concentrated on and eliminated one by one.

The troops whom had broken through the other side of the battlefield began to join up with his own forces and together they pushed toward the orc encampment, which included several hastily dug works, a set of pig farms (the pigs nowhere to be seen but in the gore that covered the hut floors), and several crude towers filled with orc archers, whom fired off several badly aimed shots, one of which struck true into the neck of a footman next to Arthas. The man let loose a sudden gurgle of despair as a fountain of blood spouted into the air. The spectacle sent Arthas into a rage, and he ran with the troops from hut to hut, woodwork to woodwork, killing all the orcs, whether they were females, or males, cutting them all down in a short manner of minutes.

By the end of the hour, the orc camp was in the hands of the Alliance, yet one last group of them was held up in a small glade. As Arthas and what men he could gather up passed into the glade, the land itself seemed to become tainted. At first, the grass had become dead, browned, and then had disappeared completely, leaving a darkened, charred soil. As they passed over a small ridge, what seemed to be a freshly dug up mass grave surrounded by candles whose green flames licked the forest edge.

He heard cries of despair from the men as they began to notice the mangled and torn bodies of the greater whole of the village that had once been Strahnbrad. The stench was absolutely awful, and a great plume of black smoke rose over the grand sacrificial pit. Around it were orcs adorned in onyx plate armor, something very rare within the Horde, Arthas had learned, both in this day, and in the war long ago. They all bore an insignia on their forearm, a great black mountain rising in a blood red background. These were Blackrock orcs, some of the last of their kind. They had been the greatest renowned clan of their time, yet were nearly completely and utterly destroyed in the end of the Second War.

"Damn these orcs to all the hells that the Twisting Nether and Great Beyond hold for them! Slaughtering innocents! Children! Women!" Arthas bit down on his lip in absolute fury, began to taste blood.

With a rising heat, he unleashed his Paladin training, and let loose a wave of holy fire which instantly roasted the orcs closest to him. The men knew what to do, and charged the enemy. It was a vicious melee, but in the end, the last surviving orcs could do nothing to stop the onslaught.

As the fight winded down and his men chased the surviving cowards through the forests, one orc remained. Bearing a blade, the orc spoke out in the language of Common, something that surprised Arthas to his core, causing him to stop before striking the orc down.

"These paltry sacrifices will appease the demon lords, whom will soon rain down from the sky and cleanse this land of your taint!" as if to mark his words, a brief thundercloud in the distance rumbled out. The blademaster then swung forward, nearly cutting into Arthas's shoulder spaulors.

Instead of retorting, Arthas threw his mighty warhammer at the blademaster, whom could not deflect an object of such mass as it smashed into his skull, splattering black orc-blood across the already deadened ground.

It was over. The hardest fought battle of what seemed all history had finished. Arthas was sickened by what he saw, but knew that it was his duty as a paladin to save those who could be saved. He found more than one person still living in the piles of charred bodies, and helped heal them with the Holy Light and the aid of several of the elven priests whom had decided to stay in the Alliance after Quel'thalas's pullout.

Still burning with emotion, he returned to the camp and found Uther, quietly seeking session with him away from the encampment where the men had finally begun to return, grime ridden, carrying to lost and wounded.

"Good job lad, this was a sound victory" Uther spoke out, his baritone voice filling the air, yet not producing the smile that usually preceded it. He knew about the townspeople, and he knew what the orcs were trying to do.

"I don't know Uther. The orcs seemed to be…sacrificing townsfolk. I think they were trying to summon demons!" Arthas said after a moment of silence.

"Yes, I've heard that rhetoric before. These orcs are just trying to hold on to dying traditions. We defeated their demons a long time ago. It has been a long, and hard day, and the closing to a campaign. Let's head home" he took Arthas's bloodied warhammer into his own gauntlet and led him back to the camp.

When they returned however, troubled seemed to follow. A messenger from the Kirin Tor had arrived earlier in the day, bearing the seal of the Alliance High Command.

_Onto the next assignment. _Arthas pondered feverently, trying to clear the image of the hundreds of slain townsfolk. As he opened the wax sealed letter, he read:

_Report to the hamlet of Urd Halls south of Anderhol by this time next week. A contingent of soldiers will be charged with you to investigate the plague that is sweeping the northlands. One of the Kirin Tor mages will accompany you to take records and cleanse the land of its malady. _

The letter was simply signed, _Archmage Antodias and the Chamber of Air. _No matter how many scattered orc clans there were in southern Lordaeron, whatever this plague was, it seemed a more important matter than the orcs themselves. That made Arthas wonder.

Dalaran, the Violet Citadel

The early spring in the human nation of Dalaran was marked by the growth of beautiful plant life, including the _flora _flower which held many mysterious ingredients which helped in all sorts of potions, occasional rains, sometimes a downpour or storm, and the melting of the winter's snow which had flooded off of the Alterac Mountains to the east.

For three thousand years The Violet Citadel had stood as humanity's symbol, its mark of ingenious, the greatest apex of magical conjuration that had yet been attempted by men and women. Situated on Cross Isle, an island upon Larrin Lake of which its shape carried its name, lay the capital of Dalaran, the great country of the Mage, a place of intense magical connection.

It was early morn, the sun still rising in the great skies, lighting the snow capped Alterac Mountains off to the east, whose base was covered by the sea of pines, coniferous, and deciduous trees stretched, green as the deep colors of dragon scale. The sunlight spilled over the horizon and upon the clouds in brilliant oranges and pinks, lighting the mountains, forests, and plains below.

Separating Dalaran from the nation, or now the Occupied Territory of Alterac was the Fenris River, now full of energetic fish, ready for spring. The river itself ran from Lordamere Lake in the central continent of Lordaeron, and was continuously fed by the melted snow and slush of the winter.

Antodias had continued his argument with the _persona non grata_ he had now dubbed the Stranger. For days, the Stranger, posing as some kind of farce prophet had harried him at every corner. Eventually, Antodias had ascended to one of the Grey Platforms, at the apex of one of the towers of the city, and confronted him.

"You must be wiser than the King! The end is near!" the so called Prophet whispered desperately, as if heralding the coming of the demons of the Dark Below.

"I told you before; I'm not interested in your nonsense!" Antodias spat back, this time giving the ruffled man a look that could turn an ordinary man to stone.

Sighing, the Stranger replied in a subdued tone, "If you are so sure of yourself as to not even inquire what I talk of or even am, then I've wasted my time here…", and in a brilliant flash of emerald light, he was gone, leaving only a few ebon feathers in his wake. Sensing another near him, Antodias chuckled slightly. He may have been old, was no fool.

"You can show yourself now Jaina, he's gone" he said dryly, thinking of the premonitions the old man spoke of; world of burning flame and death. One once told of in the ancient texts of the Dalaran Library, the greatest pantheon of knowledge outside of the Convocation of Silvermoon's _Eldre'libas_ in Quel'thalas.

"I'm sorry for eavesdropping-" Jaina was cut off as soon as the light reflecting magic wore off on her.

"It's your inquisitive nature I've grown to rely on, child. That crazed fool is convinced that the world is about to end…" Antodias took a dusty scroll from the pocket of his great, white robe which was inset with gems and jewels designed to store runoff magic that he sapped from magical objects. Setting out his staff, light suddenly enveloped them much as the Stranger, and they suddenly found themselves above the Proving Grounds where several of the younger mages were already up at this early hour, practicing their arcane abilities.

Antodias nearly smiled, but remembered that he best keep a straight face with his apprentices. Jaina had such a voracious curiosity about magic, its workings, interconnections, and reparations on the world, even when she first came under his tutelage at the tender age of three, when her father explained that she did nothing but study the implications of magic and history. That father was Daelin Proudmoore, King of Kul Tiras, and Lord Admiral of the Alliance Naval Forces. Jaina had come from a noble lineage, one that had suffered greatly during the Second War against the orcish Horde, her own blood brother killed in the disastrous catastrophe that had been the sinking of the Third Fleet, as well as many of their extended relatives when the orcs had landed upon Kul Tiras's shores briefly. The episode of the Second War had hardened Daelin, once a good friend of Thoras Trollbane, Lord of Stromgarde, and Antodias himself. The old Daelin had seemed a joking, friendly drinking buddy sort, yet, now he committed himself wholly to his work as King and Admiral, especially after his wife had died at the hands of a coup'd'etat attempt at the end of the Second War.

As the two reoriented themselves to their new landscape, Jaina looked up to the old man, most of whose face was covered in a great, white, billowing beard that looked much like the clouds on a summer's day.

"I've heard the rumors; the ones about a plague spreading throughout the northlands. Do you truly believe that this, 'plague', is magical in nature?" she asked inquisitively.

Shrugging his old bones, Antodias simply replied "It's a strong possibility", staring off into the distance of the north, where the shores of Lordamere began, the far off lake now glittering gold in the sun's rising rays.

He quickly continued, "That's why I need you to travel and investigate. I've arranged for a special envoy to escort you in this matter. Journals, rations, and everything you will need along the way have been prepared for you. Journey along the King's Road" he motioned toward the great paved path to the east of the glittering spires of the Violet Citadel. The King's Road had long been the greatest road of mankind, build long ago in the times of the Empire of Arathor to connect all the major cities along a single nexus point of trade, paved with thick, granite slabs, many of which bore the names of the Emperors of old Arathor.

Jaina nodded, knowing the enormity of her task, however simple it may sound. Travel along the road and find those villages infected with the wildfire disease, take samples, study them whilst staying uninfected, all in a short timetable.

"Yes master, I'll do my best" she acknowledged sturdily, glancing at him for approval.

"I know you will child. Farewell" he quickly dismissed her, and retired to his own quarters.

So far, the High Command of the Alliance of Lordaeron had ignored his pleas and those of his comrades on the Council of Air, even the influential Krasus and analytical Varith. If they would not listen to the warnings, then he would take matters into his own hands, and bring back the evidence he needed to knock into Terenas's head that the northern lands needed to be quarantined before the intense plague that had been circulating for the past few months, was allowed to spread any further.

Castle Thoradin Pointe, Northern Lordaeron

Iaes Sundrast looked out across the battlements, the white and blue banners of Lordaeron flapping lazily in the chilly air. The Northern Seas were a dangerous place, what with the ice and piracy. To his left was a stand where weapons were stacked when the guards were off duty, and to his right were yet more guards, fellow subjects of boredom and staring into the endless azure sea.

He and his company had long been assigned to the northern coast of Lordaeron to guard the ports and towns against bandits and pirates, many of which had appeared in the lawlessness after the war had ended. Some soldiers returning from the last war were not able to harvest the ruined fields and had turned to thievery and destruction as their way to survive. Some did it for the greed. Some just did it for the adventure of being a filthy pirate.

This winter had been a quiet one though, though the garrison at Castle Thoradin Pointe had had to suffer through the frigid winter. The Castle overlooked a small, obscure, and relatively isolated port town in the distant north, less sparsely populated than the south and midlands. The north usually suffered cold winters as they had this past year.

Iaes had signed up for the guard when his father passed away, his own mother dying in childbirth, the fields themselves were too large for him alone to sow and reap, so he ended up selling the old farmhouse. The transaction gave him enough money to try and leave the old lands of the feudal estate of his former Master, and though some small part of him earned for battle and the chance to prove his worthiness in the country, the greater whole of him knew that battle was folly. His father had gone to war as a soldier, and came back minus half an arm.

After trying and failing, to make a living as an herbalist in the city of Wallaceburg, Iaes had turned to the military as his last option. At least he was earning a pay here. His due was nearly thirty crowns a month, enough to help get him out of the debt he had nearly buried himself in that damned, miserable city by the end of his first ten terms, each a tenure contract of six months. The food wasn't too bad; mostly stale fish brought out from last year's storage (or so it seemed), and some rice from the paddy fields far away in places Iaes didn't know about, and bread brought in from great wagons of grain from the western distribution centers, places he had only dreamed of. He once swore to himself that he would pay pilgrimage to Lordegarde, to the Holy Stones of the Light, to the Grand Monastery, to look upon the rosaries of the capital of not only the nation of Lordaeron, but the chief center of the Church of the Light. But that time was far away.

Another blast of cold air racketed him, and he began to shiver in his chain mail.

"Looks like a good rain may be comin' in. First of the season" his commander, Bailey Master Rorrak Nole spoke up as he made his way across the parapet.

"Yes sir" he replied, voice cracking. After all, he was only nineteen, and still becoming a man. He shifted his legs, the metal covering them clinking, trying to warm up.

A wooden trader lolled its way across the sea to the nearby port, where the news of the outside world would be delivered along with whatever merchandise the vessel had. All that Iaes knew of what was going on right now was that there was a plague spreading in a few counties nearby. The situation was under control, or so said the people of the traders. He listened to their information every time he was off duty and in the sleepy town. Of what he also heard, there had been isolated incidents where many livestock had gone missing, or horribly deformed and decaying, sometimes even charging their own masters. However, none of the soldiers had been to the town in several weeks, a long kind of military hiatus from the outside world.

Later that day a rider had come to the Castle at full speed, pushing his mount to near death. As the animal frothed sweat, the rider dismounted and quickly reported to the Captain of the Guard in the castle square. The Bailey Master accompanied the Captain as they paced frantically up and down the square, eventually called out for Second Swords Company, Iaes's group, to report to the square.

"You boys are gonna' march into town and garrison it. Edict came from Sir Dreng, commander of the garrisons in our county to garrison the towns. I don't know why boys, so don' even bother askin' me. I'll be goin' with ya inta' town" the Bailey shouted out as the hundred and twenty five members of Second Swords Company filed into the cramped square.

Murmurs flew through the lines of the soldiers, most of whom had never seen battle. Why was there need to garrison the towns? What was going on? Iaes didn't know, and didn't want to know. He had signed up to pay off debts, not to fight a battle. Regardless, the column began to move soon after, and passed out of the oak and metal laden gates and into the forests toward the small dirt road toward the port town.

As they continued away from Castle Thoradin Pointe, the copses of trees conjoined into what seemed an eternal stretching forest. Someone had spotted rising above the forest on one or two occasions along the march, and the Bailey had sent out a scout. The march stopped dead in its tracks and awaited the report of the scout. It took the runner nearly three hours to return from a simple mile's trip. He stumbled out of the forest, helmet lost, face nearly green, scrunched up in an expression that could mean only revulsion. It wouldn't have been surprising if the man had been violently vomiting only minutes before, giving the man the look as if he had lost his breakfast. As he spotted the Bailey, he whispered something to him that made Rorrak Nole's eyes pop wide open.

Iaes noticed that the march sped up, and changed direction at a fork in the road almost immediately as the scout had returned. He noticed that the trees had become somewhat…deader as they continued, more without leaves, more with twisting, writhing branches that seemed to be decaying and falling off by the minute.

Suddenly, the column stopped. In front of them lay several dozen bodies, all dead. Their bleeding masses sprawled across the ground. They had armor, and the badge that marked them as guards of the town.

The men cried out in disgust at the mutilated bodies. Organs and guts were splayed across the landscape, blood covering trees and the ground, which now resembled a type of dry, thick, poisoned and decayed mass covering the ground.

The men were ordered to stay in line by sergeants as the Bailey and his lieutenants surveyed the scene. Rorrak Nole had been the only in the unit to see combat in the Second War, and even though he must have been accustomed to seeing death then, it had been a long time since those dark days he thought would never return.

Iaes bent over along with several other men and vomited on the deathly ground, falling to his knees, when he noticed a half buried corpse. There was something strange about it, as it looked as if it had been decaying for weeks, not just the hours since this battle in the forest. He pointed out the corpse to his commander, who briefly dismissed it.

"If these Town Guard have been slaughtered, then the town itself may be in danger" the Bailey spoke to himself as he rushed back up the reforming lines. Several men were assigned to stay behind and guard the bodies as the rest of the column continued toward the town.

As the troop neared the ending of the forest, the town was in sight. A great sheet of flame rose from it, indicating the smoke they had seen earlier.

"Light have mercy!" Iaes cried out as he saw the billowing smoke of the town. However, he did not see any survivors, not even bodies as he had seen only an hour before, the fresh memories of the slaughtered soldiers still in his mind. Strange enough that there were no bodies, but now in the clearing of the forest, there were no noises. No birds, no slight rustling of the trees in the soft, lapping winds of the coast, just the sounds of the soldiers, many of whom had loved ones in the town itself.

The Bailey however, continued to pace up and down the line, which he had ordered to be reformed into three battle lines of swords, each with about forty men, muttering something about the town seeming as if 'it had been attacked', just as the guards had. Suddenly, as the formation had begun to swing north of town for reason of which Iaes could only think be to meet an enemy, a thunderous noise erupted on the far south flank of the troops.

Suddenly, a sergeant ran past with a stricken look on his face "Get yar' weapons ready boys! The undead are upon us! They're at the flank!"

From what Iaes could see on the elevated position his portion of the line was on, a sudden black wave had emerged from the forest, and engulfed the front line of the southern units.

The order streamed through the men "Undead?". Undead had never bothered this land…and there had been no 'living dead' since the orcish necrolytes had risen them from slain warriors, human and orcish, in the Second War. What madness was this? The Kirin Tor had selectively banned the arts of necromancy long ago, labeling it one of the black majiks. Was it a rogue wizard, or some kind of training exercise? If so…where did they procure the dead bodies in the forest? And this attack didn't seem very much like the training he had gone through back at the Castle. And if it was not orcs, nor the mysterious wizards of the Kirin Tor, nor even a training exercise…then it was real. A battle!

Iaes fumbled at the hilt of his sword, pulling it shakily from his sheath. Slowly the line turned to meet the oncoming wave. As they neared, Iaes made out shapes vaguely human, then as they drew ever closer, Iaes noticed that they were missing large patches of flesh, or were not suited with flesh at all, instead being nothing but bones held together with…what?

"Hold the line boys! Word's gotta' get back to the Castle!" somebody shouted out as the din of battle closed in.

Iaes stared at the incoming wave of undead creatures until his eyes watered and dripped. The only thing he felt and heard was the rushing of blood and the thumping of his heavy heart. He lifted his kite shield as was taught, and braced for the impact of the enemy, body already numb. Suddenly, his shield was smacked with a deafening hit, nearly tearing off his arm. As the shield was easily swept away by superhuman strength, Iaes was left standing against a massive skeletal frame with bits of festering flesh and cloth hanging off the bones, and instead of eyes, there were great sockets of green flame. The brainless thing seemed to be guided by something, or someone, as its blows were instructed to hit Iaes into the netherworld. Another blow came from a massive makeshift flail, and Iaes acted instinctively, barely missing the chained ball's metal spikes as they scraped across his breastplate.

The world around him blurred as he dodged the skeletal figure's blows, and the last thing from the outside of his fight that Iaes noticed was the comrade whom had just been standing beside him crumple as a plume of blood exploded out of a chest wound, which sprayed on Iaes as some sort of red paint. The disgust gagged Iaes as he once again sidestepped another one of the undead creatures foolish fumbles.

As the ball swept around his head, Iaes ducked, narrowly missing the deadly weapon as it caved in the skull of yet another one of the men whom he had just been standing next to. In an instant, as soon as the battle had begun, the inexperienced men gave way, and the lines crumbled.

Shortly sidestepping yet another wave of the flail, Iaes took the courage to strike back with his broadsword, pressing all his energy into the attack. As soon as he had thrusted his sword at the attacker's ribcage, the enemy too dodged his attack, however not soon enough to escape the blow of the sword. It cleanly sliced across the chest and up across the neck, severing the head from its body, decapitating the attacker. Iaes looked at his sword as the rotting bones fell to the ground, the black blood covering it.

As he saw the line of men melt away into the forest, he swore, and took up flight himself. Throwing his sword on the ground, Iaes dashed madly into the trees, followed closely by the nightmarish corpses that lumbered, and even in a few cases, ran behind them.

It struck him as a strange thing to notice, but as he had his last glimpses of the sky before the great branches of the deadened trees covered it, he noticed that it was a deathly pale yellow, a terrible color that resembled something akin to a bruise. His glimpse did not last long though, as the cries of the men caught under the blows of the horrifying undead revenants permeated the air, their shrill cries filling him with dread.

The greater part of the day, or what seemed the entire existence of the world, Iaes ran instinctively toward the Castle. No more were the screams of those who had fallen, and he saw no one, nor heard any crunching of footsteps, save himself. The pure terror and adrenaline had driven him nearly three miles before he collapsed in a heap of flesh and metal, and the stars, which had recently come out, began to swirl into blackness…

With a start he woke! Iaes shot his head in all directions, searching for the fiends that had murdered his comrades in arms. The sun had already begun to arc across the sky, turning from its great pinks and oranges into the yellow of day. Here, the sky was blue again.

_It must be the morn…I must warn the Castle! _The thoughts exploded into his mind.

Again he took to the running, and followed the trail which it seemed his unconscious mind had took to when he fled. As the trees parted, there it lay, the great stone walls of Castle Thoradin Pointe. The sight of it brought tears to Iaes's blood and grime covered face as he ran toward it still.

Suddenly, the shaft of an arrow dug itself into the ground before his feet and dared not move a foot further.

"Halt!" a voice cried out from the wall. "Who are ye, and what is ye business at the Castle!"

"Pri-private Iaes Su-Sundrast" the words seemed to stick to his mouth as cattle to the grass. "Second Sword…Company"

No reply came, but the greatdoor fell open, as if the gaping maw of a beast. Iaes ran inside, still terrified if the creatures were in the forest. As soon as he entered, he noticed the Captain of the Castle and his staff marching about in the square, as if trying to figure out what to do. He glanced over at Iaes, and asked the gate guard who the newcomer was.

"Another one from the Second Company sir" the guard replied as he nodded towards a small grouping of men with bandages wrapped around bloody wounds. The guard led Iaes over to the men, and as he did, Iaes spotted the Bailey, a bloody swath in his neck. Iaes stumbled over to his commander, who lay on his back against the dirt of the square, all the healers tending to the few others who had returned.

(Sorry I took so long to update guys, but my internet has been wreaking havoc on me the past few weeks. Hopefully it'll hold, and I'll be able to update soon enough)


	4. Chapter 3: Harbinger

**Chapter 3: Harbinger**

Brill, Occupied Alterac

Halas Hamaroth lay down his hammer. Another hard day at work had been accomplished, smelting, molding, and crafting the necessities of metal had always been his job, ever since his father had first taught him how to blacksmith. In fact, it was only midday, but he had been awake since before the sun himself had risen, and was now hungry for food and home.

Wiping at the sweat that had cumulated along his brow, he strode tiredly towards the bundle of horse shoes and metal rods he had finished up but a few minutes ago. Hanging his dirty apron on a hook that lay above the door mantle, he stepped outside into the fresh air and locked the door behind him with a rusty key. Looking around to see nobody was paying attention to him, he hid the key under a small block of removable stone slab that made up the stairs to his workshop.

Running a hand through his greasy, prematurely graying hair, he started down the path towards his home, which was about a block down the dirt road. The town had never truly had enough money to pave the roads, much as many in Alterac fared.

Grumbling to himself, he cursed the first pair of footmen patrolling the roads, who bore the insignia of the Alliance on their shoulder plate, under his breath. He hated the guards. They were always getting in the way, always taking things that didn't belong to them, always poking their noses in others business. Hell, he hated the Alliance. His old man had been in the one of the armies of Alterac in the last war, and had fought alongside his supposed brothers from the other nations, until they had betrayed Alterac, and moved against the Capitol itself. Though his father had survived the betrayal, fighting at the gates of the Capitol, the Alliance had raped Alterac for all it was worth, and now continued to sit contently on the weakest, and most exploited nation of all man. Father had never truly been the same as when he came back, always drunk and furious.

The two guards gave him a glancing look, probably used to the angry faces they saw, and continued on with their leisurely stroll along Alterac's rightful soil. But what had happened had happened, and Halas didn't see any way to change it, but shared his anger through a secret underground society that spoke of eventual revenge. Only once or twice did he attend such meetings, but today was a special day, and the Headmaster called for all disgruntled to join him. So he went on with life, unlike his Father, who was now three years dead. "Light rest his soul" Halas muttered.

As he passed the town square, he quickly caught sight of the new grain shipment from Lordaeron, and excitedly hurried home to tell his wife. When he returned he embraced her as he usually did, gifting her with a perfunctory peck on the cheek, and informed her of the day's news.

"It's about time those damn Lordareil give up some of their grain to feed our poor people. They know they've made us resort to feeding off chicken scratch!" she said with vehemence. She hated Lordaeron perhaps even more than he did, and though the living conditions of their life were poor at best, she had always managed to keep the family, including their twin daughters going.

However much he loved to talk with his wife, time for work drew close again, and he ate his meal of oats and thin soup with slivers of swine with joy, knowing it had been cooked and toiled on by the love of his wife, and once again left the house for the workshop, knowing that she would later pass by the town square to pick up the bread they so desperately needed, bread made from the same grain as the one given to them from Lordaeron that day.

As he passed by the Square again, he noticed the time from the clock tower, and suddenly his heart turned cold. It was time again for the meeting; work would have to wait for a bit longer.

As he deviated from his normal path he passed into a dank alleyway filled with black rats and bugs, eventually coming upon a cellar door in the back of the old wine gallery that used to house the drink of the nobleman that once ruled the town stead.

Shifting his eyes from side to side, he opened the door slowly, making sure it didn't creak. Yes, the Headmaster had sent the message through the townspeople very subtly, and it seemed that even the guards themselves did not notice. Many would attend today's meeting.

As he descended into the cellar, he was confronted by a pair of hooded figures, faces obscured in shadow. "Show faith and enter" one spoke in a monotone voice.

Halas upturned his arm, and pulled back his sleeve, showing a small brand that had marked his initiation to the Cult. A pale hand protruded from the sleeve and grasped his arm, and with a quick slash from his fingernail scratched into the brand, causing Halas to flinch. The hooded figures looked to each other, nodded, and allowed him passage through the long hallway lit only by small torches that hung loosely from the walls.

Eventually coming upon a large chamber where the wine used to be stored, Halas encountered many men, a great number of whom were his neighbors and old father's friends, yet not as many as Halas thought would turn up. Smiling to them, he sat on the scattered pews as the Headmaster, marked by his purple robe and black hood stood upon an altar and laid down the dusty old tome he called a "book of the Damned".

"Men of Alterac!" he suddenly hissed, causing silence throughout the room. "You have suffered grievously, and unrightfully!"

The men in the room nodded and clenched their hands in anger. The Headmaster continued his rhetoric, "Displaced, starved, and stripped of honor and pride you have been, thrown into the darkness to shrivel and die. But it is not only _you _that suffer this fate!"

That comment threw off Halas, as with many men in the stench filled room.

"In Lordaeron, the peasantry too has been abused, though not as much as you here in the Southlands…once upon a time they called you brothers in arms, and fought beside you but their King and nobles are as corrupt as any one thing can be upon this earth! Instead of the orcs complying with demons, I'd rather say it was them! Cowards! Usurpers!" he began to raise his voice, throwing the men into a frenzy. Quickly though he lowered his hands and voice, signaling for his crowd to calm, lest someone discover them.

"My brothers in the Cult have spread across all of this realm and beyond, and soon the time to strike back at those who have betrayed us will come soon. Those that stood in our way will be vanquished by the power of the Lich King, of whom is the rightful master of these lands and all lands. Within the pages of the Book the Lich King speaks of great power to those whom follow him, a power of life, and freedom from the toils of your petty existences! Join with him in covenant, reclaim what is yours, and destroy the enemy that assails us all!" he then quailed, beginning to preach of the book of the Damned.

As he continued to speak of the Book, and of how the Holy Light was a tool used by the corrupt men to enslave those lower than them, Halas began to become dissuaded. He had joined the Cult to aim his hate at Lordaeron, not at the religion of the Holy Light. It was certainly not farce, for he had seen the power of the priests and clerics of the Light. Slowly he rose from his pew, noticing that he was the only one not enamored by the Headmaster's speech and crept out the same passageway he had entered from. He quickly made of a lie to escape from the strange meeting and its guards and headed back to his workshop.

Though he had believed in the corruption of the people of Lordaeron, he had been completely disgusted with how the Headmaster spurned the Light and its followers. Terrifyingly enough though, no one else seemed the least bit disturbed by the robed man's increasingly vile words and actions. "What was the Headmaster's name anyway?" Halas suddenly wondered, leaving the quirking thought in the dust as he entered his shop.

No, he wouldn't be dissuaded from the Light. There was too much proof of its existence and its rightfulness. He returned to his workshop and for the rest of the day continued on his metalworking, having a few of the people come in and retrieve or turn in their property.

By sundown he was on his way back, and completely exhausted. Seeing that the grain shipments had gone out to the townspeople Halas entered his home knowing that he would have a meal tomorrow, and was happy enough with that, forgetting the trouble on his mind from the secret meeting of the day.

However, as soon as he had entered the tenement where they lived, a blast of foul air covered him. The tenement was dark, and stunk of foulness and sickness. He cried out the name of his wife, and found her and the children splayed across the floor where they ate regularly.

Panic rising, he shook his wife, who opened her eyes, blinking the sweat away to reveal bloodshot orbs. She gurgled something, and Halas soon noticed blood running from her mouth. Again she tried to speak, making out scant words this time; "Grain…poisoned…" was all that Halas could make out. She continued to look up at him, chest rising rhythmically, and suddenly, not at all. He held her in his arms, looking around in hysteria, tears streaming from his eyes. When a minute had passed, he howled in pain and sorrow. He lay down on the ground beside his family for what seemed like an eternity, next to the scattered bread that had slowly begun to turn green. "Why must it rot now, for it is too soon for it's end to come?" Halas said to himself as he observed the putrid bread. His family had been poisoned…by the grain…from Lordaeron. How many others had died?

Standing up woodenly, Halas walked out the door into the fresh air after kissing his dead children and wife, and fell to his hands and knees panting, sharp stabs of pain coursing through him. Screams filled the air as he began to stumble towards the nearest figure, shadows moving through the village. He swore eternal hate upon Lordaeron, and would do anything necessary to destroy the murderers that killed his village. As he made his way down the lonely, dark streets of Brill, he could make out a column of figures dressed in the black robe of the Cult, being led by the Headmaster who was holding some kind of icon that looked like a grossly distorted cross in his arms, and as he spotted Halas when the column passed by him, he said without even looking to him "Come, the Cult of the Damned shall wreak havoc upon those that committed this crime"

And Halas followed, falling in line with the growing column, and the Headmaster smiled, noticing the dead rats around the toppled grain barrels.

Outskirts of Brill, 3 days later

It was most infuriating, not being able to solve the process by which this disease evolved and grew. Cyrus Faim'las continued his search nevertheless.

A malady had fallen upon this land, and he was sent from Quel'thalas to help cleanse it. However, when he had reached the town, he had found nothing but a burning cinder overrun with undead. Nearing the town of Brill, where days ago desperate pleas for help had come, he had noticed a thin line of Lordaeron soldiers encircling the south, particularly at the crossroads that led to Strahnbrad, the Violet Citadel, and Stratholme.

Thin puffs of smoke rose from the skeletal remains of the buildings that once made up Brill, rising into the hazy skies. Cyrus hastened his priests and mages forward, bringing about fifteen elves from Quel'thalas with him, and another few from the Violet Citadel, including the lead of the Mage's Guild of Dalaran, Lady Enura Stoutword, of whom was herself an accomplished sorceress.

Following the famed King's Road, he had made his way west, past Stratholme, and had begun to gather information about the plague. The Kirin Tor had specified to him through various agents that they believed it to be magical in essence, something not natural to the world, perhaps a work of evil from unknown sorts. Whatever it was, Cyrus had followed it thus far, aiming to understand the mysterious disease. What he had discovered so far horrified him.

The plague would make its way into the victim and kill them in less than a few hours, but after half a day or so, the victim would again rise with only basic functions such as feeding, a living dead. However, what truly terrified him was the driving force behind whatever was spreading the plague. It most certainly wasn't natural.

He still didn't know how the plague made it into people, as he had not encountered an airborne infection, thus ruling out that possibility, at least for now anyhow. However, he had noticed a strange reoccurrence that had led to his hypothesis. Caravans from certain locations in northern Lordaeron had gone out for the month's supply of grain for bread, oats, and other foods and supplies and soon after each caravan had dumped it supply, an epidemic began. So far, the plague had been limited to small villages, but Cyrus doubted it would long stay that way.

Already the civilian and military government of Lordaeron and the interim Provincial Alterac government had refused to place quarantines on the villages, believing them to be local occurrences. "…First orc uprisings, and then this. The land is indeed about to enter dark times" Cyrus whispered to himself, deep in thought as he plodded down the pathway "This is a serious problem…this plague will soon bring even their attention down upon it. There is no way the King can avoid this problem. It is inevitable. Evil will come of this"

Already rumors had flown through the towns he had passed through, whispers of undead roaming the countryside, men dressed in black at their fore, grotesque creatures sewn together from corpses and more. And on top of it the disease itself was gaining knowledge from the public and peasantry, and they called it a dread Plague. As if things couldn't get worse. Cyrus wondered if he was the only person in Lordaeron that realized that necromancers and vast numbers of dead were not a good mix. Perhaps it something of genius, an evil design, something larger than what he had thought of, something larger than anyone had thought of.

Pushing the thought away, he made his way down the road to a small military encampment set up outside the city's longwall gatehouse. The exhausted looking regional defenders seemed to have been fighting for days, their armor rent and men dishelved.

As he neared, three helmed guards converged on him. "What is your business in these lands elf?" the one that seemed in charge inquired.

"I am Cyrus Faim'las, priest of Sunfire Abbey, Quel'thalas. I have guarded my country's borders from the runestones for countless years, and have witnessed the rise and fall of your kingdoms. I, and my fellows have come to help cleanse the land of its malady" Cyrus replied, taking a look around the camp "What has occurred here?"

The guard slowly took off his helmet to reveal the face of an young man covered in grime. "I'm not quite sure, sire. First thing we knew there was some violence in Brill, and my unit was recalled to help out. We thought it was a riot at first, but when we got there the villagers started attacking _us_. The whole village went mad! Next thing we know there are waves of undead assailing us! We set up camp by the two towers outside the gatehouse, but lost them this morning when this monstrous catapult destroyed it"

"You say the undead attacked you? Were they fresh corpses, or decayed?" Cyrus asked quickly, trying to get to the point.

"Well sir, there were a great lot of bodies that looked like they had just been alive. There were some undead that came from the graveyard"

"I see…" Cyrus began to ponder "…and, was there any report of disease in the town, or any signs of the Plague that is spreading from the northlands?"

"Well sire, last thing I heard, the Plague had come into town and infected a great many people. We were recalled to help set up a quarantine, and then got orders to help defend the city against some kind of attack, and when we got here everyone was already dead or undead. It's a mess" the young man paused, putting the pieces together "You don't think that the Plague is a weapon by the undead to raise more corpses do you?"

"I believe it is young man. Who's in charge here?"

"That would be me sir. The commander got killed in the night. We burned his body, and set fire to the remaining sections of the town to prevent any more dead from rising"

Putting down his lantern which gave off a blue aura, Cyrus instructed several of his priests to go tend to the wounded, before deciding to go off on his own to seek the sickness that was spreading not only through the people, but the land itself. Trees were sickly and bent, shrubs were blackened and covered in a moldy substance. In the distance he noted several strange pyramidal structures, something defiantly not of human construction. He remembered the tales about the structure from somewhere, but just couldn't put his finger on it.

Walking into the small glade by himself, Cyrus noticed strange new growths, strange mushrooms and prickly brushes, all seeming to emanate a feeling of death. It was almost as if the land around him was…dying.

Kneeling, he uttered a quick spell of healing, and a wild tulip that had been grey and utterly devoid of life suddenly stood up right, and brightened to a cheery yellow. Pleased that the land could still be healed, Cyrus stood, and returned to the camp.

The Kirin Tor was indeed right that the plague had originated somewhere in the north, and it was spreading more quickly than anyone had anticipated.

"Lieutenant" he gestured towards the young man "I need three of your men to come with me. I believe I know where the plague originated from in this town"

"Certainly. If there is anything you can do to help stop this sire, please, this is insanity!"

"As all war is" Cyrus whispered as the Lieutenant assigned him a detail of three footmen. As suddenly as the Elven priests had arrived, they were off, north towards the town's granary.

"You're gonna' let them go in there by themselves?" one of the soldiers cried out to the captain.

"They know how to handle themselves" he replied calmly. Suddenly, the bridge into town collapsed, just as the last of the enigmatic elves crossed it.

Along the King's Road, Alterac

Just being around her again was exhilarating, the feeling of euphoria, her charisma and beauty penetrating even his deepest concentration. Jaina Proudmoore, one time his mistress, now a friend. Of that last part Arthas felt sad about, yet knew that he and Jaina had done what was right, and broken off their affair long ago when it became certain that their paths in life would not be together.

Noticing that he was looking at her, she smiled briefly and turned to look out into the forest.

However, even the presence of Jaina could not keep the cold feeling of dread in his gut. With every day reports from across the Kingdom got worse, more and more villages infected with the Plague. In the countryside, attacks and disappearances had been occurring far too often and organized for mere bandits or scattered orcs. Undead seemed to walk here and there, frightening farmers at first, then beginning to mass in large numbers, blocking roads, attacking small townships in the wilderness. He _had _to find a way to stop it. It was his duty, as a paladin and future King, to love and protect Lordaeron and her people, and also with Uther still in the south fighting the remaining orcs, Arthas had to carry the torch of the Silver Hand through these villages and see if he could raise the spirits of the people.

Brushing a blonde cusp of hair out of his face, Arthas pointed west, where the road led to the town of Brill. Arthas's investigation had been forced to make a long detour, as the bridge into town was mysteriously destroyed earlier in the day.

Upon sighting the bridge, they had met up with a group of local soldiers, who informed them that the town had been infected with the plague they were sent to investigate by the Kirin Tor. They also stated that there had been some kind of violent attack by the undead, zombified corpses, skeletons, and other ghoulish creatures, and that the entire town was thrown into chaos during the night. The soldiers told them of how the Plague had spread from nearby granaries, and that a team of Elven priests had set off in the morning to try and stop the Plague from spreading, however had not reported back the entire day. Farmer folk south of Brill had been able to locate a fording across the river, where the water was shallow, and the eastern road to town began. Finally a lead…

Already they had passed through several villages, searching for the origins of the plague, and were not the only ones either. The Kirin Tor had sent small teams throughout all Lordaeron to find whatever scraps of enlightening information were available. However, Arthas began to notice the men under his command had expressed distaste from taking orders from a woman, and were…uncomfortable with one being close to a battlefield. Arthas chuckled, believing that she was more capable of damage than any one of them.

As quickly as they had crossed a creek into sight of the town, the sounds of a fight echoed from in front of them. Arthas had urged his men onward, eager to destroy the threat that was poisoning the land. They had come upon a small scrap where several dozen footmen from the town's garrison were under fire from missile fire, arrows shot from somewhere in the trees, which turned out to be a grouping of about a hundred undead, all firing arrows as if they had known it in their past lives. Eventually though, they were able to drive out the skeletons with the magic of Jaina and the soldier's bravery, and stopped, now within far sight of the town.

"Jaina, do you think something is driving these undead?" he inquired, studying the remains of one of the destroyed creatures.

"It's tough to say. Usually undead without a necromancer wander alone, attacking both living and other dead ravenously. Easily enough a powerful mage could have risen these dead, however how much power it takes to control the sheer numbers has always been in question in the Kirin Tor, as we do not practice the dark arts. We saw in the Second War that the warlocks and necrolytes themselves had a good deal of trouble keeping their raised minions in check, but if all of this, all of the attacks in the northlands, the Plague, if it's all connected somehow, I think it would be safe to say that we're in the midst of something far greater than a rogue mage or warlock. And another thing that I've found very strange…the magical ambience of the surrounding land has not been tapped for some time, as if a certain person or peoples had not raised the dead here" she replied in her fluid voice, looking as if she wanted to say more.

"Perhaps the death cults that have been springing up everywhere are working in conjunction with the necromancer?" Arthas wondered out loud, knowledge of the various death cults had made way back to Lordegarde and his father, the King.

Jaina didn't reply, instead staring off into space as if trying to concentrate on some disturbance.

"We'd better get moving if we want to save what's left of the town's people" Arthas quipped, and began walking again, the soldiers behind him.

"Wait!" Jaina exclaimed "This way, there's something over here" she pointed out to a small clearing in the forest.

As the clearing came into view, so did the massive grain silo. A small signpost held up the name of the town of Brill, and which direction it was in. However, something was very wrong with the scene. The soil and plant life around the silo was blighted, black and diseased. The smell too was revolting, the stench of decay filling the air.

"It's almost as if the land around that granary was dying" Jaina observed.

So it was settled. The Plague, whether natural or non-natural was being spread through the grain, especially those crates bearing the regional seal of Andorhol, meaning that the Plague could have perhaps originated from there or the lands surrounding it.

"Burn it" Arthas stuttered, anger filling him "Burn that thing before it infects anyone else" Grabbing a torch from a guard, he tossed it into the abandoned silo. Soon enough the entire building was engulfed in massive conflagration, a great pillar of black smoke rising through the air.

"Milord" a footman approached from behind, and bowed as deeply as he could. Arthas smiled, and gestured for the footman to rise "The main grain warehouse for the province is north of the town, and I'm sure you can find answers there"

"Thank you Sergeant" Arthas replied, nodding curtly "We must destroy all the grain supplies in the area to prevent this Plague from spreading further south. That's the objective for now"

As Arthas's small contingent had reached the town, it was evident that there were none left to save. The building's charred frames stabbed into the air as if knives and smoking corpses littered the streets, as did other debris. Clear signs of fighting were evident; perhaps the town guard's stand against the waves of the former citizens, now undead. Several ballistae lay upturned or splintered, and the pair of guard towers on the south side of the town were toppled, now a pile of rubble and stones.

"Sergeant" Arthas called out the leading soldier's rank once more, "I want men on the northern and eastern towers. Report to me what you see-and tell them to keep their quiet"

The footman nodded, running off on the cobblestone streets. As the footmen scoured the town for signs of life, Arthas himself decided to investigate the town's logs in the Keep. Pushing rubble out of the way, he was able to make his way to inner Keep, past the shattered gatehouse, and the square. Fighting had gone on, however, bizarrely enough, the bodies of many of the defenders were gone, only entrails or those too badly mauled to be of any use remaining.

Sickened by the sight, Arthas quickly continued to the records, where he found what seemed to be the former quartermaster's torso, arm, and legs, clutching in hand a journal. Frowning, Arthas picked up the journal, reading the hastily written dialogue.

_Even now the black clad men walk about the town. As if by their will, the dead rose with life renewed, and assaulted the Keep. Many have died already trying to save Brill, but I fear they too will turn against us as living dead. I can hear the screams, the blood running across the stones, the stench of death chasing me even into my locked quarters. They will kill everyone. They are unstoppable. Light, forgive us all…_

The text ended suddenly, blood smearing the rest of the page. Upon the quartermaster's desk lay the logs, the numbers of shipments, where to and from, for all manners of imports and exports for the month. Indeed his suspicions were confirmed, the latest supply of grain from the northern city of Andorhol.

"There is nothing more for you to discover in this town" an ethereal voice stated, seemingly floating around the room.

Quick as lightning, Arthas drew his mace, the Might of Menethil, and assumed a defensive posture, eyes ablaze with holy magics.

"Come, young Prince, we have much to discuss. I am Cyrus Faim'las. I too am investigating this Plague, and was employed by both my King and the Kirin Tor to do so" an elven face appeared from the darkness of the doorway.

Standing down with a sigh of relief, Arthas replied "You must be the Elven team sent to investigate by the Kirin Tor. The generosity of the Elves is greatly appreciated, sir. Yet, what exactly were you doing here in this building?"

"The same as you, young man, looking for answers. I believe, however, there is something outside you must see" the elf pointed outside, and the two proceeded.

As soon as they had though, the Sergeant Arthas had assigned to watch the towers came running up to him, panting as he tried to get his words out "Sire! An army of undead is passing to the east! They are moving north, towards Andorhol!"

The Elf nodded, said "Yes, I noticed them as well beginning to group from under the trees. I do not know where they all came from, but they have much strength in numbers. Suddenly they just pulled together, right before my very own eyes"

"Sergeant, how many would you estimate there are?" Arthas inquired.

"Many thousands milord, more coming every moment" the panting footman said.

"And they are moving along the King's Road you say?"

Once again the guard nodded, now bent over clutching his knees.

"Sergeant, find yourself a horse from one of the villagers from the south, or stables if any still remain here, and get word back to Lordegarde. I request the presence of the nearest stationed Alliance army south of Andorhol by tomorrow if at all possible, and if you see any forces along the way tell them to report here as well, under the command of the Crown Prince of Lordaeron. Make sure they tell my father that an army of undead is moving about the countryside, and there may be more" Arthas commanded.

The sergeant acknowledged, saluted and went off to find a horse and spread the word.

In a flash of light, Jaina appeared, the magic's of Kirin Tor teleportation doing good yet again. "Arthas, I was researching the poisoned grain, and it seems that the grain itself is tainted with a magical disease that involves necromantic powers, killing the victim, and making them rise hours later-"

"There's time for research and explanation later, Jaina. We're moving north immediately. You can discuss your findings with Sir Faim'las here" Arthas gestured towards the elf, who had continued to stand as if stone throughout the entire conversation. "The undead are moving, whether raised from this town or another, and are grouping together. They appear to be striking at the northern towns, gathering more dead for their force"

The contingent regrouped as quickly as possible, and prepared to give chase to the undead, and meet up with whatever Alliance forces were available at the given moment.

As the group moved up the road, the main granary warehouse came into vision, the same reeking death filling the ground below it and the tall grass.

Before the house however were several men dressed in black, boxes bearing the agricultural seal on them. One stood above the others however, and wore a crude goat skull over his head to hide most of his face. Arthas could have sworn he had seen a smile coming from under the skull.

The black robed wizard glanced at his allies, and gestured for them to flee. "I see you've discovered our little Plague, my young friends" the wizard spoke to them, holding his hand parallel to the ground. Soon enough, his hand had begun to glow a eerily green. Suddenly, the ground cracked open, and several more skeletons, brown with dirt and age, rose out of the ground, and charged at Alliance soldiers.

"I'm sorry I can't stay and chat, but, duty calls. Your land's time has come. If you wish to discover more, seek me out at Andorhol, but do be warned, your curiosity will be the death of you"

In an instant, the black robed wizard was gone, in a flash of blinding white light, much like Jaina's Kirin Tor blink abilities. The wizard's minions charged, all filled with the same sickly green or bluish tint seemingly emanating from within their ribcage. The last thing Arthas saw before one of the skeletal figures jumped on him was one of his footmen being torn to shreds by the superhuman strength of the necromantically charged undead.

Swinging the Might of Menethil around his head, he crushed the decrepit skull of the skeletal being as it rushed toward him, decapitating it. The blue glow diminished as the creature fell to the floor with a clatter.

It didn't take long to clean up the attack; a few ravenous skeletons, nothing more. After burning the grain warehouse, Arthas sought out Jaina, speaking to her "Who do you think that man in black was?"

"Obviously a mage of sort. I believe he would call himself a necromancer, one that deals with the dark arts of the dead. It's a safe bet to say he has some great part in the raising of these undead in Lordaeron over the past few weeks" she replied, shaking her head at the sight of the burning warehouse.

"Then its to Andorhol we shall go. We'll meet up with whatever forces we can find there, and put an end to this madman's rampage though my country" Arthas said with vehemence.

"Be careful young Prince. There is much more at work than a single necromancer and his lackeys" the enigmatic elf, Cyrus, spoke up, eyes filled with the wisdom of years.

"I'll do what I have to do to save my people elf" Arthas snapped back, turning to face the King's Road which led north, to Andorhol, where the gathering armies of the undead seemed to be focusing.

(Alright guys, I'm really sorry that it took me so long to post this chapter and the last. Aside from my computer wreaking havoc on me, its been an extremely busy summer so far, but it finally seems to be calming down, hopefully. I've already begun writing the next chapter, and soon enough we'll get into our full scale conflict. See you on the field)


	5. Chapter 4: Face of the Enemy

**Chapter 4: The Face of the Enemy**

The next day, outskirts of Andorhol

"To arms! To arms! The undead are afore us! Charge!" the horns blew, and the banners of the knights company went forward. Nearly a hundred men in heavy plate armor upon greatly barded with eloquent sheets of thick iron and steel. The lances came down, and a great heaving upon the extended oaken wood was felt.

Valdar Justax could barely even see out of his own helm, but indeed his time had come. His company had finally been brought into the battle after being reenlisted into Prince Arthas's forces after he had called for help. Indeed the life of a knight was for him. Though only a knight bachelor of the lower nobility, he indeed had promise, or so was told by the Grand Cordon during his days of training as a page and esquire.

Riding in the back of the formation, he smoothly handled the reins of his steed, feeling the ground through the vibrations of the horse whom he had named Constance. He still hadn't seen the face of the enemy, but had heard from the other, older cavalrymen about the Plague and the undead that roamed the land. Many had begun to refer to the Plague and the undead that followed it as 'the Scourge', as if it were a great cloud of pestilence that had come from the Great Dark Beyond to swallow up the land.

In the front of the line he heard the grotesque noises as lances split through the enemy, whomever so they be, orcs or undead. The company glided over low dips and slight hills of muck, where the ground had been turned to a strange dead soil. Above, rain had begun to fall upon the land as the army had turned to Andorhol.

He had heard from the men in the column that the Prince had marched them nearly all through the night with only an hour's rest. Indeed something big must have been brewing. Again the trumpet blew, and the rider's urged their horses onward. To the right and east he heard clashings of sword and shield, the cries of men in battle and those wounded. Suddenly, his chest felt cold, knowing that indeed here on the battlefield he could be stricken down at any moment.

With trembling hands he continued to guide the horse with the company. In an instant, a sudden shower of arrows fell upon the knights. Valdar instantly recognized the face of his friend Thorek Ghent as his helmet slid off his head, with a great shaft protruding from his eye visor.

Suddenly, a great fear tore through him. He could be next? The fear, the terror, so overwhelming as he stared into the voided eyes of the lumbering corpses being directed by their masters. Such horror that he felt now…nothing was worth this, or so it seemed! Indeed he would have turned the horse around and ridden for life if he could, but he was…frozen. "Shall I be called a coward?" he whispered silently, losing his voice in the wind.

Valdar felt sickened, as he did when he had first encountered the orcs in Strahnbrad. The great golden trumpet blew again…this was his time. As men crumpled under the great volley of arrows, the second line came forth, and lay down their lances. The sight came into view.

What seemed innumerable undead strew the terrain, with men in shining armor fighting them. However, despite the seeming odds of the battle, indeed the undead were weak, and Valdar saw that in many places the infantry broke through with ease.

"Though there seem to be many, they are not as great as your eyes make them to appear" the Cordon whom was leading them shouted out, barely decipherable "We ride to the bridge! Clear a path for the infantry!"

Neatly, the knight's compact formation straightened out into a single line, the great forest of lances now laid down, pennants and banners fluttering in the breeze.

"_How do they do it?_" Valdar wondered, feeling the great revulsion pass through his body has the horses trod upon fresh corpses, thinking of not only the horses but men as well…creatures who think, rationalize, befriend? "_How do we commit to war? Such depravity!" _he thought as the line passed a company of bedraggled footmen tangling with a mass of undead emerging from the nearby forest, looking as if they were a mix between the rotting bodies of days old villagers and the skeletal remains of those years dead wearing nothing but the tattered remains of cloth, if any at all.

The great masses of ghoulish undead seemed to link together in a great ring around the bridge into the flaming remains of Andorhol, and the knights were headed straight for the center. Just pieces to use…..

Pieces to throw away in an attempt to break through. That was all men were in war; blocks on a map. It became painfully clear to Valdar that his own life meant nothing to those of the higher nobility, or the Generals, so long as the goal was won by days end. Had it been a mistake? Should he have listened to his father and the elders in his village, whom had told of the Second War of nothing but terror tales?

As the masses grew closer, Valdar saw them clearer; skin, loosely hanging on their faces, bags under their emotionless eyes. Some wore expressions of pain, others neutrality, as if they hadn't known what was going on when they were infected. Their clothes were a mess, edges in fringes or torn and covered in dried blooded, hands and makeshift weapons caked with more of the life fluid. Indeed these were villagers whom only a week ago had been tilling fields, selling the last of their stores before the autumn, working in shops and smithies, serving the King in ways they knew best. Valdar heaved, gagged, but barely managed to hold back his breakfast.

Suddenly, his right arm jerked, and felt as if on fire. The wooden lance, tipped with an iron spear, impaled one of the many undead around him. Another arrow swept by, glancing the armor of the rider next to him. The lance splintered off, and it, and the ghoul it had just impaled disappeared as the knights drove deep into the mass, leaving more dead behind it.

Yet, as far as they were going, the horses could not manage the sheer numbers of the enemy. Pikes and pitch forks stabbed them where they were not armored, or tore at the chain mail around their necks. Within an instant, one of the seemingly uncoordinated zombies tore at his horses hind legs with a great butcher's knife, cutting even into the bone of the hapless creature.

With a great neigh, the horse threw Valdar off its back, who fell into a puddle of mud not two feet away. As the knights passed, many of the undead themselves were thrown to the ground or rendered incapable of fighting back. However, a few still crawled here and there.

Valdar screamed as one of the zombies jumped upon him, tearing and gnashing at his armor. For a seemingly decrepit creature it had supernatural strength, his own arms barely able to keep it away from the weak spots in his armor. Other knights too had been thrown off their mounts in the seemingly ill fated frontal assault, and were hacked up by the ghouls. One was torn to shreds, limb by limb, screaming as he realized his own gross dismemberment. Rolling away from the creature he ran, soaked to the under mesh to the nearest copse of trees, tears rolling down his face in horror.

Unsheathing his blade, he rested his back against a tree and noted the damage to his breastplate. Unable to gain even a moment's reprieve however, disgusting mass of sown flesh the size of an ogre suddenly cleaved at the tree in an attempt to kill Valdar. He had seen such a thing as the knights had first ridden towards the undead lines. In a single swipe, it thrust its crude weapon through the tree, splintering its trunk, and nearly crushing Valdar. Raising his weapon and body, Valdar dodged the next attacks by the abomination of a creature, slashing at its legs periodically, causing putrid rotten blood to spew forth. It was him, or this…thing.

The thing knocked him back with yet another arm, which Valdar had now estimated at about four, blowing his wind out. Just as the abomination was about to strike again however, the Light itself seemed to rescue him. A nearby column of infantry surrounded the hideous being, and stabbed at it much as Valdar had done. It swiped at the men, throwing many of them as it had Valdar, but in the end they were able to cut down the great abomination. Standing up groggily, Valdar could see that the way to the bridge had indeed been cleared by the knights, and the infantry was now securing the area.

Sighing with relief, Valdar threw off his helm, and passed out. His first taste of true battle had left him drained beyond all comprehension.

Andorhol Bridge

Rage. Fury. Anger. Hate. Mortification. Arthas felt all of these emotions and more. It was beyond description what that Necromancer had done to his people. As they had traveled over these past few days and weeks his force, now reinforced with hundreds more men pouring in from garrisons across the land, had begun to unravel a mysterious conspiracy, and threat of a terrible war. With a mighty lunge he cast down another one of the victims of the Plague with his paladin hammer.

Sweat poured off his face and stung his eyes as he looked toward yet another that had come out from one of the smoking buildings that had seen better days. Indeed his group was surrounded.

"By the Grace of the Light, be cleansed! _Ish nal dalurah vanerg_!" he said the prayer words, which had been slightly mixed with elvish refinement many years ago, and in a great blast of golden light, the undead before him were smote to cinders by the Holy Light of Creation. Indeed these were artificial and unwanted things by the Light and all nature.

He charged forward into the mass of walking corpses, as did his men, screaming for revenge. Twisting to match the attack of one of the festering abominations, he threw a crushing blow upon the creature's leg, breaking the many make-shift bones within it's hideous appendage. As the thing recoiled in pain, Arthas jumped and brought the bloody mace down upon its head, spilling whatever brain matter it had left.

As the fighting continued, he continued his own personal battles, and by the time there were no undead left to destroy, he began to burn the remaining corpses. The people in the town had had the right idea when they set fire to the quarters, assuring that no further infection would be allowed. Further ahead however, undoubtedly more of the living dead lay in wait with their masters. They had pushed this scourge from the bridge into town and now pacified what was left of the Southern Market. If Jaina was correct, then indeed the Necromancer they were looking for had to be in the vicinity somewhere.

First he had heard of the rumors, the scattered paranoia coming from the far north, of a dreaded Plague that had swept through the towns. He had dismissed the question as easily as the High Council of Lordaeron did though, thinking it just a regional outbreak of gout or some disease, but he had never expected it to reach this far. If the Plague had managed to hit the mid-Provinces, then it could very well strike throughout all of his country.

There had also been the numerous death cults that had sprung up in the past few months, which he too had underestimated. Shortly after leaving Brill, they had stumbled upon a caravan of such cultists, whom had fought to their deaths. Again this morning when they had arrived, there were several of the same dressed cultists surrounding an old gold mine, doing some kind of strange ritual of summoning, as if to bring a great structure around it and suck it free of its minerals.

Next had come the Necromancer, and his undead army, along with the cultists whom had followed him, had pillaged the countryside and had now begun to attack the sovereign towns, forts, and cities of Lordaeron. The Necromancer had run from them in their previous encounter, stating for them to mind their own and give up their petty struggle. And that elf, Cyrus, had mentioned something about perhaps the Plague being a tool of this necromancer. Indeed if that was the truth, Arthas would destroy the man for causing such suffering, and hopefully stop, or at least contain the Plague before it spread too far across the land.

Earlier in the day, he had met with many of the commanders of the regional defenders and those of the forces now pouring into his command. "Sire, there have been sightings of undead across the entire Northern provinces, which is at least this six hundred league stretch of land. Lord, it seems that everywhere the Plague spreads, the undead appear behind it" a captain had told him, pointing out the terrain of Lordaeron on a map, not that Arthas had to be told. He had long ago memorized the important locations of Lordaeron and its basic size, and land.

The meeting he had called with Lord General Victor Kane and Captain Laywright, the two ranking commanders that had answered his call for reinforcements, had assured him of the overall strategy of the Necromancer, and that help would arrive soon enough from the south. But in the meantime it was up to Arthas and his steadily growing force to combat the forces of the undead. Indeed, the Plague had been spread through the grain. If a town was infected, it would fall to the undead within a few days, if not all of its people were killed by the deadly disease itself.

It seemed that the Plague had followed the trail of the grain shipments from Andorhol, and if indeed it had, then things would look very, very bad within the next few weeks and months. Plotting out the shipments, Arthas prepared small parties of men that would chase down the convoys and burn them before they could reach other towns, but doubted that even they could catch up to the blasted grain caravans.

As the meeting had concluded, he lifted the tent's flaps and strode outside into the air. Screaming and cries could be heard in the distance as a long line of footmen marched past. In the distance, a great cloud of smoke rose from where Andorhol was supposed to be located. They were far too late to save the city.

The wave of unholy creatures had come to an end. Arthas gasped for air as the smoking corpses around him were carefully stacked in piles by his soldiers. There city had been pacified of the undead, however, there were none left to live within its crumbled walls and cremated houses.

Sitting down to rest for a moment, Arthas thought back two nights before, and the question that had incessantly driven him since, as well has his own guilt…

_"Damn you!" Arthas screamed, hitting the bloody, bruised face "Who ordered you to administer the Plague through the grain? Who is your master! What is your goal!" no matter how many questions he threw at the man, he refused to answer, speaking only in riddles. _

_"And soon fall they shall, into the dying embers of life, those who follow not the Cult of the Damned" _

_Arthas took a hot metal rod, and punctured the man's pale flesh upon his arm, driving the rod toward his heart. Despite the searing heat and stink of his own burning flesh, the man kept shut. _

_The man's pain-glazed eyes looked into his for a moment, and in that moment Arthas realized that indeed this was a man; a man who had made his own choices, and pursued his own ends. A man who had tried to make a better living for himself…but at the expense of hundreds, or even thousands of lives._

_"Ashes to ashes, we all fall down!" the man spat the old rhyme, as if a final insult. Fury and embarresment at what he had done soared through Arthas as he slowly watched the man die with a smile on his face. He had withstood the torture. He had died with his secrets. It was for nothing. _

He had been administering an intense torture to one of the Cultists he and Jaina had captured in Brill, those that had claimed that the end of Lordaeron was in sight, keeping even his crimes of that night a secret to his dear friend and the troops that served in his name…

A flash of light! Jaina appeared, looking exhausted herself, along with the elven mage Cyrus, whom apparently had been teaching Jaina in the place of Antodias, or so it seemed. Indeed the inconspicuous elf was very powerful. Shooting a worried glance at him, she began "Arthas, we've managed to clear out the undead in the southern city. However…I can feel that the ambient magic in this place has been…distorted; used, and changed…molded. We've almost caught up to this Necromancer, but we need to make sure that the grain shipments haven't gone out yet from the main silos" Jaina stated, azure eyes shifting from side to side.

Arthas hung his head in anger. "We'll get the bastard wherever he runs. Let's go Jaina", making no notice of the elf, he motioned for Jaina to come along. Indeed this was an almost personal matter to him now. The elf silently pulled away, seeing the Prince's disturbance.

As the two passed through the ruined streets of the city they bore witness to the grotesque deaths of the city's innocents, many which seemed to be burned by the fire that had spread across the city. The gray clouds that had gathered in the morning produce a fresh round of rains, as if the sky itself was crying for those that had suffered here, quelling the last embers of heat in the dead city.

The two ran past the ruined town square, and into a small courtyard surrounded by piled, yellow skulls, as if trophies. The bodies of peasants and defenders alike were set upon pikes, rows of them. Dry blood blotched the cobblestones, and a terrible sour smell, the smell of death, permeated the air.

There, below the spires of the grain silos feasted several ghoulish undead upon the succulent corpses of those who died trying to set the grain on fire before it could be used anywhere else. There indeed stood a dark figure, robed in onyx with green lace and brass button flanked by two ghouls. A seeming black smoke rose from the figure as he turned to reveal the face of an old man; lined and tired, it was the same face they had seen in Brill two days ago.

Arthas's face flushed with pure hatred as he swung the mace from his back. Jaina stood stoically still, studying the man's barely visible face as if she'd known him from somewhere before.

"Hello again children. I am Kel'thuzad" the Necromancer spoke his name, a grin appearing from under his great beard. Jaina recoiled with surprise! This was the aspiring genius-mage whom had abandoned Dalaran in favor of darker, forbidden magic arts! How could she have ruled him out as a possibility? "I've come to deliver a warning…as I said before, leave well enough alone. Your curiosity will be the death of you"

"Are you responsible for this Plague necromancer? Is this cult your doing?" Arthas bellowed.

Lightening from the gathering clouds struck in the distance. In the background of the city a sickly green aura permeated.

"Yes, I ordered the Cult of the Damned to distribute the plagued grain, but the sole credit is not mine"

"What do you mean?" Jaina said vehemently.

"I serve the Dreadlord Mal'Ganis. He who commands the Scourge which will cleanse this land and establish a paradise of eternal darkness!" Kel'thuzad exclaimed, eyes alight. In the background the great pillars of smoke rose from the blackened chars of the city, and the sky's rains had become a fierce storm.

"And what exactly is this 'Scourge' meant to cleanse?" Arthas inquired hastily, eager to learn more.

"Why…the living, of course" Thuzad answered, smirking. "His plan is already in motion. Seek him out in Stratholme if you require further proof"

Immediately the two ghouls rushed forward, and Kel'thuzad backed away, fading into the mist that had suddenly begun to fall.

"No…not again! You won't escape me this time necromancer!" Arthas shouted into the shapeless mist.

"Arthas, watch out!" Jaina yelped out as one of the ghouls threw itself in the air and pounced on Arthas, throwing the paladin down. With a quick spell weave, Jaina cast a fireball through the air and burned the other ghoul to a cinder.

The beleaguered paladin reached for his hammer with one hand while keeping the ghoul's festering teeth away with the other. The thing began to tear at his armor when suddenly it let forth a howl and ceased the struggle, falling limply upon Arthas.

Above him stood Jaina, Princess of Kul Tiras, smiling as she helped him up. "Shouldn't it be the other way around" she asked playfully.

"Not now Jaina!" Arthas said aggressively "We're going to hunt this Kel'thuzad down and bring him to justice. If the scouts are correct, there's another undead force outside of the northern borders of town. Once we kill this underling, I'm going to make sure that damned dreadlord Mal'Ganis goes to whatever Hells this bastard goes to"

He quickly tore open the doors to the grain silo's only to be met with a terrible stench and flies, as well as several more human corpses. "All the grain supplies have been shipped out…we're too late!" he whispered to himself, eyes wide, shock rippling through him.

Jaina cast her eyes to the ground as Arthas pulled himself together. Arthas called up reinforcements from the base camp, and prepared to force they're way to Kel'thuzad. No, he wouldn't escape this time.

North of Andorhol

The great stitched abomination fell to the ground with a thud. It's rotting innards poured out as the creature lay still on the ground. They were close now, very close. Jaina could feel the ambient magic of the glade was being disturbed and tapped into. Kel'thuzad was somewhere nearby.

She studied the thing, noticing, like all the other undead so far, that they had been reanimated, as hypothesized, by necromantic magic. But that only explained half the story. Indeed, some of the skeletons and other undead had been exhumed from graves, and been long dead, but there were an even greater number that seemed to have never died at all…somehow transferring immediately from life to undeath, passing nearly straight past the kiss of death.

It was all…very disturbing. Throughout her studies of the arcane, Jaina had always been taught of the evils of necromancy, and here lay proof of such evil…it was so…unjust; taking the body of a passed soul and using for black deeds. As the 4th Volume of the Arcaneium in the Library of the Citadel had explained,

_Necromancy is magic of arcane arts which has been afflicted by the caster with fel magic. It attracts the forces of the Twisting Nether as anything of the arcane does. _

_The use of Necromancy enables the reanimation of those long dead, and shortly passed. _

_If psychic dominance is made by the caster he/she will be able to control the bodies of the summoned for his/her command. _

_Necromancy is a Dark Art, forbidden in all uses. As such, it falls under the categories of 'Dark Doctrine' and 'All in One'. _

Once upon a time Jaina had respected Kel'thuzad, even looked up to him. He had been

The aspiring prodigy, had climbed the ranks in the Kirin Tor as few had before, seemingly memorizing spells and seals with the blink of an eye. It had even been rumored that Kel'thuzad was nearly chosen by Antodias to take the position of Arch-Mage after his passing.

However, after witnessing Kel'thuzad's dabbling in the dark arts, Jaina had grown suspicious of him. When he was given the ultimatum of ending his experiments of exile, who chose the latter, fleeing Dalaran with his possessions. It had been very disappointing to Jaina whom had almost looked up to him as a role model; but now…after witnessing all this…Jaina could not help but feel disgusted, seeing the fall of such a great man to a creature of without a base for evil.

Another thing came to mind; the plagued grain. When her and Arthas had encountered Thuzad at the grain depot, the shipments had already been sent out. Those shipments themselves were for the entirety of the Mid and East provinces. The consequences of the grain caravans reaching the small towns of the populated countryside's of Lordaeron would be absolutely disastrous; a death toll of thousands, tens of thousands. And the undead would follow.

Arthas himself had begun to show acute signs of battle stress, having fought nearly nonstop for three days now. He was also hiding something from her, something dark, turning it to his anger and hate for Kel'thuzad.

They had to stop this mysterious Mal'Ganis whom had initially planted the evil seed into the stomach of Lordaeron. And the door to Mal'Ganis was through Kel'thuzad, who seemed to be a high ranking subservient.

A scream pierced the misty air, followed by the crumpling sound of armor as a man fell. Jaina could barely see anything through the hazy air, following the column led by Arthas very closely. Those who Arthas sent to scout out flanks and fore hadn't returned yet. The column had already been attacked by several of the stitched abominations and all sorts of undead, especially the zombified ghouls.

"So you have chosen this path, haven't you?" a voice echoed from the mist; Kel'thuzad's voice.

As the group stood upon a small mound, rustles in the leaves all around them were heard; moans, screams, and evil laughter. They were surrounded upon the misty hill! Shadows came from all sides, and the shadows became hideous creatures, people and things bent to serve the will of Kel'thuzad and his Cult of the Damned.

"Arthas!" Jaina cried out shrilly, as the creatures began to charge.

"Stand your ground men! Fight them! The Light is with us!" he shouted, letting go of his Tome of Divinity which now dangled by chains, and grasped his war hammer in both hands. In the mist, his plate created the image that he was twice the size he was, great shoulder pauldrons and leggards emphasizing the strength that lay under the armor. With a single stride, Arthas stepped off into the distance, a golden aura about him.

The men cried out as well, letting loose their swords. Determined not to die here, in the middle of this conspiracy, Jaina cast a sealing of fire around the hill, causing the first wave of attackers to burst into liquid flame. One of the ghouls struck for her before the seal was completely finished for the second wave, but a footman blocked the thing with his heavy kite shield shooting her a glare as to say that she did not belong on the field of battle.

Twisting, she crushed the gruesome head of one of the ghouls that had come up behind, and twirled her staff about face yet another undead, unleashing a torrent of arcane energy that quickly dissolved its tissues.

The undead finally broke through her fire barrier, and plunged toward the surrounded company. The men's battle cries echoed and mingled with the strange noises the ghouls emitted. A single banner was raised upon the hill, and the men crowded around it as the battle became more and more constricted.

Jaina, concentrating, let forth a torrent of arcane magic, mowing down the attacking ghouls. A great purple-blue blast shot forth from her ivory and gold adorned staff, finishing off scores, dozens of the undead. A few, still able to stand, continued their headlong rush. One, threw itself onto a footman unlucky enough to have lost his shield in the fighting. The thing immediately went for his unprotected neck, tearing at the flesh and his jugular, causing a great plume of blood to sprout from the man's body.

Again, the evil laugh was heard through the air. Summoning great strength, Jaina compressed the air around them, and cast off the unnatural mist, revealing that the mound was covered in dead ghouls and footmen. The remaining few huddled closely around the banner which had emblazoned on it the golden L of Lordaeron, surrounded by the respective seals of state and king.

Below, at the base of the hill, Arthas fought a robed figure, smashing his battle mace into the ground and unleashing holy judgments upon his enemy. Indeed it was Kel'thuzad. As the necromancer summoned more of the slain upon the hill of battle to fight for him, he let loose another chuckle, as if testing Arthas's strength and resolve.

More undead rushed at the hill, diverting Jaina's attention from the fight for a few moments as she and the men fought off yet another wave of ghouls. Suddenly, shouts of dismay, and then pain, wailed out. Behind her, the men, not protected by her arcane shield that she had erected for herself during the battle, were…melting? Jaina recoiled in horror, witnessing their flesh melding with their armor, and their eyes bursting. Blood and the stink of death filled the mound as the banner fell, only to be caught by one of the few remaining soldiers lucky enough to be saved from the spell's evil nature. It must have been a spell Kel'thuzad had cast during his battle. How masterful he was, to cast a spell of death and decay while fighting one on one combat.

In a moment of absolute terror, Jaina didn't move, watching the men die slowly as Arthas finally landed a blow upon Kel'thuzad, his hammer now golden with enhanced powers from the Light. Nearly falling backwards from the force of the blow, Kel'thuzad began to chant another incantation, but was unable to finish his foul work. Before he knew it, Arthas had smashed in his ribcage, puncturing both lungs and chest with a crushing blow.

"Naïve fool" Thuzad sputtered, blood now foaming in his mouth, staining his long, white beard "My death will make little difference in the long run…for now, the Scourging of this land begins" and with that, Kel'thuzad fell to the ground on his knees, and then flat upon his chest.

Finally able to move, Jaina slowly and shakily made her way over to Arthas, abandoning the corpses on the mound.

"So you lived through his spells…" he said, sounding relieved, but voice stern. He shot a hateful glance at the body of Thuzad, and ordered the remaining footmen to carry it away to a discrete location and bury it far below the ground in an unmarked coffin. The men nodded, faces pale and sickly from the fight, and took the still bleeding body off into the distance.

"Arthas…" Jaina muttered "What now?"

"I won't stop until this bastard Mal'Ganis is dead. I'll hunt him wherever he goes. For them" he pointed to the mound where the blood had begun to run off "and for everybody the Scourge has killed. But before we go, we must make sure everyone and everything that has died here is burned. We can't let traces of the Plague slip further across my country" he replied scowling.

It took the remainder of the day, but the men that had come so far, nearly two thousand soldiers, set off along the King's Road. But before they reached Stratholme, where supposedly Mal'Ganis was, they'd have to pass through the village of Hearthglen to obtain extra supplies and soldiers. Hopefully the troops Arthas had dispatched were able to stop the grain caravans before they reached any other towns, but Jaina seriously doubted that even light cavalry would be able to catch up with them before it was too late.

Lordegarde, The Royal Palace

Though he was from Stormwind, the court of Lordaeron felt like the place where his superiors had always resided. Uther the Lightbringer, paladin of the Alliance of Lordaeron, knelt before King Terenas Menethil II, who sat upon his throne, clothed in his royal attire.

"Milord, the 1st Army has completed its task in wiping out the orc remnants in the southern provinces. We have eradicated them leadership, and sent what few orcs there are left run for the Alterac Mountains, and are pursued by our cavalry with great haste. The campaign has come to a successful end" he reported, sure that Terenas already knew of these things.

"Rise, my old friend" the aging monarch said smiling. Gentle light from the bright sun bathed the Throne Room, illuminating the curtains and galleries, reflecting off the polished marble floors.

Uther rose and kissed the ring of Terenas, as was customary in Lordaeron, and stood at attention.

"I am glad to hear of the orcs defeat. We've worried about them too long now, and with most of our major forces preoccupied keeping the peace in the land or holding back the renegade orc clans in far off Azeroth, we haven't had the chance to dispose of them. However, there is something you should know, and I shall brief you myself" Terenas said, face turning a shallow white.

"You know of the Plague, yes?" he King questioned. Uther nodded. "Its spread beyond what anybody, even the Kirin Tor, believed it first would. It has spilled over across the borders of the northern lands into the central forests and eastern plains. Added to this are the numerous death cults which stir up trouble and unrest among the citizenry and…reports of an army of the dead, culled from the afterlife by necromancers and followers of said death cults. Wherever it seems the Plague touches, undead appear behind it, so its safe to say that these two are somehow in conjunction with the other"

"What would you have me do, milord?" Uther asked, inquisitive of the new problem.

Terenas sighed. Indeed, to have the King in such a state, the problem must be big. Huge in fact. "As of this date, I am putting the forces of the Alliance on the highest possible alert, but it will be months before our armies are prepared to fight, perhaps even not until the end of this year or even after. Thus I am giving you the field commission of Captain General of Lordaeron. This is the highest rank anyone has been granted since High General Turyalon bravely gave his life on the other side of the Dark Portal to save Azeroth. We don't know how far it has spread, by my son and your pupil is investigating the matter at this very moment. Hopefully we will be able to correct my mistake, for I was too slow to act upon this, even as the Kirin Tor urged me to do so. Perhaps age is getting to me"

"General," he cleared his throat "you are to quarantine the northlands and any other area which has shown outbreaks of the Plague. And, report to me if there is such a force of undead roaming the countryside. All we have had so far is rumors and terror news from the disgruntled and fleeing populations of peasants."

"Sire, it took us five years to prepare the Alliance for the coming of the orcs before the Second War, and even then we were nearly defeated, saved only by the orcs own traitorous nature. And even today, our armies are not as grand as they once were, and compounded upon that, they are scattered across the continent and realm, many as far south as Nethergarde Keep and the Blasted Lands. Will we be able to fully mobilize the Alliance in time, in the worst case scenario?" Uther replied, finally realizing the scope of the ordeal.

"It is too early to raise forces for fighting a war. The only reports I have so far are the ones from my son, which are by now many days old, and the wild rumors of a population fleeing from disease" Terenas replied tactfully "You are hereby given authority to enact the full power of the Knights of the Silver Hand as well. May the Light and victory go with you"

"It will be done, sire" Uther replied, and turned about face. Indeed, if things were as bad as the King said they were, and Terenas had always been a faithful and honest man, then the meager forces he would be able to raise might not be enough to contain the threat of an epidemic of unbelievable proportions.

2 Days Later, Hearthglen

"Finally…Hearthglen, I could use some rest" Jaina sighed. Indeed, her elegant robes were stained with mud and blood from the fighting. The rest could go the same for the force following Arthas as well.

Arthas had pushed the column incessantly, and they had covered many miles in a few days. "_These_ _are the times I wish I had a horse_" Arthas thought bitterly, feet aching.

As the walled town came into sight, a great noise from the town's square began to echo in the air. Approaching, it became clear that the garrison was on full alert, companies of footmen marching back and forth between the gates of the town.

Archers stood resolutely upon the two walls which presided over the south and west entrances into town, as great blasts were heard inside. Arthas knew the noise; dwarven blunderbuss rifles, inaccurate, strange devices used by the mountain dwarves to fight off trolls and kobolds that might appear, even roaming bands or orcs or bandits. The dwarves had always been an ingenious ally, inventing explosives with strange black powders and great barreled cannon that had been used in Lordaeron now for nearly fifty years upon the walls of the Capital City and other great fortresses. Unfortunately, not much else other than their rifles were really useable in battle, due to heavy weight and faulty design.

"It looks like they're preparing for battle" Arthas muttered as the column split off into the town. _"I had informed them of my arrival, but they wouldn't put up this fanfare just for a Prince…something else is going on" _Arthas thought.

Entering the town and passing several buildings and towers, Arthas and Jaina came upon the vast courtyard where the garrison was training. As if on queue with his earlier thoughts, a sergeant, reported to him.

The man bowed, and stood at attention, saluting the Prince. "Milord! Thank the Light you arrived when you did! During the night, a vast army of undead warriors emerged and began attacking villages at random! They overran Mardenholde Keep by this morning, and now they're heading this way!"

"Damn it! Jaina, I'll stay here to protect the village. You go as quickly as possible and tell Lord Uther of what's happened" Arthas said, eyes already viewing the defensible locations, few as they were.

"But-"

"Go Jaina! Every second counts!" Arthas exclaimed.

Jaina met Arthas's gaze, looked straight into his reassuring eyes, and ran. As soon as she was out of town, she began reading off her scrolls of teleportation, and disappeared in a blinding flash of light. Well, at least the elf Cyrus was here. His healing powers would be sorely needed in the battle to come.

The army that had come to follow Arthas had taken a different route, a quicker shortcut past Hearthglen straight toward Stratholme. Even if called for now, they wouldn't be able to turn about. No doubt they had encountered the Scourge already. Another thing that deeply disturbed Arthas was the fall of Mardenholde Keep…a great fortress which had housed many paladins in its day, and had not fallen even to the orcish Horde when they had flooded across these lands years ago…and yet, it had fallen in less than a night. Indeed, this was trouble.

Still going over the defences, Arthas noticed a pile of crates below one of the scout towers along the south wall of the town. Feeling as if his air had been punched out, he walked toward the crates, which bore the seal of Andorhol.

"Wait-what was in those crates?" he asked the sergeant.

"Just a grain shipment from Andorhol. No need to worry, milord. Its already been distributed amongst the villagers" the man said cheerily, eager to please the Prince.

"Oh no…" Arthas whispered. Looking back, he saw dozens of peasants and guards collapse, seizures and convultions overcoming them. From outside the town, a lone horseman rode through the gates.

"The undead are upon us!" he shouted out, as if doom's day had come. Window panes shuddered and the ground itself shook. The trees swayed in the weak wind, and the same eerie sounds of moaning began to rise from the town. All of a sudden it became clear. An attack from within, and beyond!

"The Plague wasn't merely simply meant to kill my people. It was meant to turn them…into the undead! Defend yourselves!" Arthas shouted out. The Siege of Hearthglen had begun.

The Plague of Undeath

By this point, late summer of the year 613, the Plague has spread across many of the most northern towns of Lordaeron. The epidemic as driven droves of citizens south, who now seek protection in overcrowded cities, making them all the more vulnerable to contraction. As revealed by Prince Arthas, the Plague was secretly imbedded in the grain by the Cult of the Damned, and distributed across central and eastern Lordaeron.

The undead armies, now rising from the corpses of those whom contracted the Plague, are under the control of the necromancers of the Cult, who in turn follow the Dreadlord Mal'Ganis, a demon of indubitable power whom has arrived upon this earth to wreak havoc upon the kingdoms of men, in order to clear the path for a much more sinister and deadly invasion…


	6. Chapter 5: Encroaching Darkness

**Chapter 5: Encroaching Darkness**

Hearthglen

"Hold your ground! We are the chosen of the Light. We shall not fall!" Arthas bellowed as dozens of rotting ghouls slammed into the wall of armored men. Every man and child able to wield a sword and don a helm was sent to the north and east entrances to town, and a field hospital had been set up in the courtyard.

As the violence subsided, Arthas nearly collapsed, leaning against a wall to stay upright. He wiped the dried blood that ran from his nose and mouth away with his gauntlet, wiping it on the soot covered tabard.

Another attack, another defense.

Another attack, another defense.

Another attack, another defense.

Days had gone by that seemed more like weeks since he had had to company of Jaina. Through the weeks preceding the siege, he had enjoyed her humor and personality greatly, keeping him anchored amidst the growing nightmare that had become real life. But now she was no longer there.

Arthas stared with glazed eyes as a dirty child wandered aimlessly along the bloody cobblestones. A woman, inspecting the wounded and dead, found her spouse's body, cleaved nearly in half by one of the great abominations with their terrible power, and let loose a shrill cry, and a storm of tears. Farm tools, blacksmithing hammers, and such lay in random settings, scattered about.

More refugees had come in the morning, as well as a unit of halberdiers that had miraculously escaped (or entered?) the net of undead that were slowly enclosing on the village of Hearthglen. They brought tales of the vast undead army that had covered the hills like a black specter, carrying with them great cartfuls of plague infested grain to spread across the outlying villages.

Arthas had led the men out in the middle of the night, breaking through the stranglehold of undead, and made it past the mountain pass to the east and sabotaged the convoy of grain, forestalling any further reinforcements to the Scourge's forces in the area, but had discovered too late that many of the villages themselves had been infected already. Another disturbing fact was that the undead now began to appear in even larger numbers, supported by troops raised from the ashes of Mardenholde Keep bearing armor, blades, and even bows. As if the salvaged ballistae were not enough to give trouble, the undead somehow constructed crude catapults that the men, and even Arthas, that the country people called 'meat wagons', as they usually carried about the bodies of men slain trying to disable them. Occasionally the Scourge would launch the bodies of the brave men back into the town, inciting more panic among the people, a few of whom had decided to try and escape. Their screams were heard when they were not one hundred yards out of the city.

"Damn!" Arthas spat. How could he protect his country if he were funneled in one city. Who knew what Mal'Ganis could be doing out there. Yet, he couldn't abandon his people here. The men that looked up to him when he met them at the ramparts and battlements, the new widows that sought hope, the children who once played and grew up in this country.

There was nothing to do but wait for relief. Large sections of Hearthglen had already burned down, and the two towers at the east gates had crumbled under the pounding of the meat wagon. The grain shipments that had not yet been distributed had also been burned, to avoid any more contact amongst the remaining people. With that gone, there was now hardly any food left.

"I could use that damn army right now, Lord General" Arthas said to himself, thinking of Victor Kane, whom had begun formulating the elements of the 4th Army under Arthas's control. The army had marched far past Hearthglen in an attempt to reach Stratholme as quickly as possible. They were likely either fighting the undead themselves or leagues away by now. Jaina was their only true hope.

"Sire!" a shout arose from the barricade. Arthas glanced toward the stacks of boxes and sharpened wooden pikes. Before the town a great army of creatures, ghouls, skeletons, abominations and the grotesque spider-men advanced across a plain now muddy and bloody from days of fighting. This was by far their greatest advance yet.

Readying himself, Arthas took his place at the barricade with the rest of the men. He quickly caught a glance at Cyrus, the elf whom had trailed the undead with him since Brill healing wounded soldiers. Above, the clouds were growing dark, a faint purple tint beset by a brilliant orange and pink as the blazing sun set in the west.

The thirty ballistae in the former fort town fired off repeatedly, gashing the Scourge's advancing forces. The most direct road into town was the wide ravine to the east overlooked by Hearthglen which was raised on a hill and backed by the mountains. The town had once been a grand fort town that had served in the Continental War against Gilneas and Stromgarde long ago, and thus was well equipped with defensive weaponry, however much of it had been taken to Mardenholde Keep when it was built about five hundred years ago, property of the noble family of Hearthglen, the Fordrings. It even had several tactical towers placed in the outlying roads, but those had long since been overtaken by the undead.

As the undead lines came into view, Arthas clearly beheld the behemoth. Far greater and more organized than the forces before them, this one would most likely give them trouble. Massive companies of decomposing bodies moved in a very un-uniformed fashion, split into several outer wings and a main force in the center. Skeletons and corpses able to be reanimated without much damage to their frame grasped swords, shields, axes, pikes and even banners with crude skulls and cross bones embroidered on them, while wearing rusting armor. Scattered throughout the lines were the massive abominations, and bubbling from the ground came the grotesque and horrifying spider nerubians, whom had only been spoken of in legend, wandering the wastes of Northrend, the far off land of ice. Far less organized than the 'abler' bodies, ghouls, many of which had been infected by the Plague or been badly maimed slavered drying blood and held insane looks in the spheres of their rolled back eyes.

The sky suddenly filled with great blue orbs, the meat wagons letting go of their deadly cargo. Along with the azure fiery rocks being cast at the defenders were body parts too damaged to use, and probably infected with Plague. As the deadly payload was unleashed upon the town of Hearthglen, Arthas and the garrison commanders brought up the regiments of soldiers to man the barricades.

Archers let loose their arrows, which when lit with peat and fire did a great deal of damage to the bumbling corpses. And battle ensued.

Barely dodging the swing of one of the undead, Arthas quickly countered with a crushing blow from his mace. No matter how many he killed, no matter how many bodies he trod upon…_they just kept coming_.

Silvermoon, Quel'thalas

Sparks flew, as two robed figures dashed towards each other. A flurry of blades exploded onto the scene, as the seemingly weightless combatants drove at each other. With an agile overhand swing, the first of the two sliced down, missing only by a few inches the elongated ear of his foe, who quickly dodged yet another blade that had just slipped from his opponent's sheath. Twisting out of a gridlock, the first masterfully placed his blade on the flesh of his competitor's throat.

Letting out a chuckle, the winner grinned deviously, "Yet another round to me. Your hand movements still show far too much of your intention"

"Yes, Master Salvos" Kael'thas Sunstrider bowed before his sword-master, and winner of countless matches. Long had Salvos Fysian been called the Duke of Blades, one of the most skilled and artistic of the warrior caste in the court of Silvermoon. Long had Kael'thas striven to win against him, yet never could. He knew it in himself that he was far more proficient in the arts of the magic and mana than he ever would be in swordsmanship. However, his father the King, had tried to give his son the ample education in all fields.

As Fysian made a few motions on how to keep muscle movements a surprise, Kael'thas thought back to Dalaran. For the past few years he had endeavored to absorb as much knowledge as possible in the Academy of the Arcane Arts. Being around humans had made life seem much faster, as they were always in a hurry to do what they had to do before they're meager lifespan ran out. He'd even found a human that he had understood, and been attracted to. Shoving that thought of his mind, Kael'thas wondered how such mortal creatures could ever have established such an affinity for magic in the first place. Well, if it wasn't for the Elves promise to first introduce it to them in exchange for their aid during the Troll Wars three thousand years ago, they probably would still be living in caves and bumbling about the forests…but then again, Quel'thalas probably wouldn't exist to this day either.

The two races had shared a mutual relationship of understanding and even, dare one's say, an unspoken league, for these many years, but the bloodbath that had been the Second War had brought that time to an end. The foolish human's leadership had led to the destruction of many of Quel'thalas's beloved forests and towns.

"Milord Sunstrider, your father requests your audience in the Convocation chambers. He is calling a meeting with the nobles and generals of the Rangers" a messenger suddenly said, bursting Fysian's explanation.

"I shall arrive shortly" Kael'thas replied as he slipped into his blue-gold robe, hiding the underneath training mail beneath his tunic. As the Prince bade farewell to the sword-master, he stepped out the sparring hall and into the warmth of the Thallasian sun. The Convocation of Silvermoon's Grand Edifice was not far, just down the smooth, glazed pathway. The grand buildings of Silvermoon loomed into the sky, a city of magic and light. The sunstone glistened as the great orb of orange set in the horizon, giving off a brilliant evening aura. The Grand Edifice itself was a huge, looming structure, complete with an impossibly large dome and four surrounding towers.

Hurrying past the guards whom gave him bay, Kael'thas passed through several hallways with three or more story heights. Ancient texts and runes covered the walls, and brilliant paintings presented the extended history of Quel'thalas. The names of the monarchs and heroes of nine thousand years of struggle were etched upon the gold ceiling and blue banners trimmed with bright silver hung portraying maps and flags of the land.

As Kael'thas came upon the Grand Convocation chamber, he beheld the nobles of the same blood as the highest of the Highborne from the misty past of the Elven people, the true masters of the arts and knowledge. Upon a tall podium of stone-wood infuse (called the Seat of the Sun, upon which are many magical artifacts that glowed and pulsated throughout the eras) his father, King Anasterian Sunstrider stood sternly, listening to the quiet buzz of talk. His father had inherited the noble features of Dath'remar Sunstrider, the ancestor and first King; piercing eyes, with orbs of gold seemingly bubbling from within their pupils, a long nose bridge, a sharp face, and long, arcing eyebrows.

Drawing little attention, the Prince quietly took his seat at his father's side, however being nearly five feet below the Seat of the Sun. Magic amplified the voices of the nobles in the massive chamber, and a great blue light of arcane magic shone down upon them.

Kael'thas spotted the grim Dar'khan, flamboyantly dressed, brooding in the back of the chamber. Upon the Benches of Truth sat the Ranger-Generals of Quel'thalas, the leaders of the elite Ranger Corps that had long defended the borders of the mystical nation. Nearly a half foot taller than the rest upon the Bench, Sylvanas Windrunner of the valiant Windrunner family sat stoically, catching bits and pieces of different information in-between each of her phrases as she presented some kind of material to the court.

"…and in conclusion, the Plague is indeed magical in nature, and has spread throughout much of northern human lands. It's not known how its spreading, and we're not receiving much communication from the border towns as they don't know what is occurring. But it seems the situation is slowly degenerating. The Death Cults that we took little heed to seem to have spread into the eastern portions of Lordaeron and seem to be affiliated with necromantic magic, and are raising entire armies of those infected and killed by the Plague" Sylvanas finished, standing in attention as a rock, yet her beauty still flowing like the waves of the arcane.

Suddenly, Kael'thas felt the eyes of the entire Chamber upon him. Looking up, he could see his father look attentively at him. "Prince, I wish you to hear this" he said, voice deep and noble, like an ivory horn that could be heard clearly above all else.

"Yes, milord" Kael'thas replied, bowing his head.

"Continue" the King said, waving his robed arm in the air.

"My Lord King, long have we watched as the humans destroyed the nature in their lands, abusing the powers of magic we so graciously gave them. We were better never to have entered into leagues with them. After all, we are the greatest people in all Lordaeron. It is us who command the power of the Sunwell, which gives us our unlimited potential. Though…if it so concerns the members of this Covoncation that we must intervene in the spreading of this Plague which shall surely not reach our borders, why not use the power of the Sunwell to demonstrate our strength and cleanse the lands of this disease?" Dar'khan, who had finally looked up, speaking with a light in his eyes.

"_That is a dangerous person. Always seeking another chance to see the Grove of the Sunwell, a place where only once a person is permitted to see". _Kael'thas thought. He was always seeking power, even though he had become one of the most accomplished mages in all the land.

"I would refrain from using the Sunwell's power Dar'khan" a noble spoke up "It is for passive use only, enabling us to contact the arcane with ease. It is the last true artifact of pure magic in this world, and we best protect and cherish it as long as we can without marring its greatness"

"Ish nu alah, Prince Kael'thas" a voice came from the opposite back of the round Chamber acknowlaging the Princes arrival, and then turning to another "Need I remind you, Dar'khan, that the humans were the ones who saved _us _in the Troll Wars, and kept us from being overrun in the recent Second War?" the voice came from the noble Alaric Faltron'Quel, perhaps the second youngest member of the Convocation apart from Kael'thas.

A great uproar greeted his comment on the Second War. It was the human's own lack in leadership and tactics that had resulted in the swath of destruction the Horde had cut through Elven lands.

"Take the example of the Battle of-" Alaric tried to explain his point.

"Sit down Quel. You're of noble blood, but you're family isn't as proud as it once was; before the disgrace of your father!" Dar'khan spat "The only reason you sit on in this chamber is because of what he did, giving your family none other than a foolish adolescent to put in his place"

The comment clearly angered the young elf, who was about to speak when interrupted by the King. "Silence! Dar'khan, watch your tongue around the Quels. They too are descended from Sunstrider blood. No matter what Avion Quel did, it's none of your business. Back on our subject, it is in my opinion that this matter does not warrant our attention, at the moment anyhow. The humans may contain this threat themselves. We don't need their Alliance meddling in our affairs, and this is my final ruling based upon the hearings I have heart in this session. The Convocation is dismissed"

Dar'khan and Alaric'Quel shot hateful glances at each other shortly before leaving the Chamber as the rest of the noblemen did.

"Father, what is it between those two?" Kael'thas asked reproachfully as the room emptied.

"Ancient history, my son" his father muttered, playing with a globe that slowly pulsated with azure light. "I trust that the Duke of Blades taught you well this day?"

Kael'thas nodded as the two slowly walked through the great hallways lined with guards. "What have you heard of this news my son?" the father quietly asked.

"I've heard that the Plague originated somewhere in the north of the nation of Lordaeron and has quickly spread throughout the provinces general. Indeed I also heard that many of their soldiers, and even Uther the Lightbringer were withdrawn from the attack on the remnant orc clans in the south to deal with the situation and contain the Plague. However, I have also heard report of the undead who now roam throughout the central lands. Indeed, strange magics are about them…of course, necromancy and even perhaps fel magic from the Twisted Nether. The humans are calling the undead in their lands the Scourge, as it consumes all life before passing on Do you think, father, that this can call back the black enemy from the Great Beyond into our world again?" Kael'thas inquired, remembering the stories that the eldest of the Elvenkind would tell and record in ancient tomes, of the Sundering and the war against the demons long lost in the mists of time.

"It is possible, but I doubt that these undead controlled by said Cults are in any way connected with the Burning Legion. If this happens however, we truly may have to interfere. But for now, we will do as we have done, and allow the humans to deal with their own problems. You do not agree?" his father said, now looking at him, as if seeing through Kael's impassive face.

"Well…in my time in Dalaran, I was constantly bombarded with the complexity of humans, but it seems indeed that they hold a vast potential for themselves, with their desire to complete so much within their lifetimes. There are some you could say I admire, such as Archmage Antodias, who might be as powerful as our Grand Magus himself" Kael'thas remarked.

His father scoffed at the last comment in all his Sunstrider arrogance, but understood his son better than any. "Indeed they are a strange people. But son, you were there in a city of civilization, a place where the best of the best come. And you never wandered out into the villages of men, nor even to the non-magical wards of the city. There you would have witnessed true human nature; bribery, corruption, and misery. These are things that all but a few humans breed. Do not mistake them for creatures of a higher order such as ourselves"

Kael'thas did his best to understand, but his respect toward the men of Dalaran did not fade. Or was it just to one person, the one he admired the most? He had not admitted to any, save himself, that he had found love in the City of Mages, among none other than a human woman; but it was not his place, and he knew that he had to bury such feelings as quickly as possible. That was partially why he had returned to Quel'thalas for this short time.

"Prince, you are returning to Dalaran soon. I do hope that you will learn from those people, both of their good and bad sides. Humans are never what you think they are. In the blink of an eye they can change, from the most loyal and subservient kind, to one who would slay his own kin. Do not take them lightly, that is why we as a people do not"

Kael'thas bowed before departing from his father. Soon he would return to Dalaran to continue his studies of the arcane, even though he had done so for nigh a hundred years. Indeed the unfolding events in Lordaeron were getting very serious. Deep in his gut, Kael'thas knew something was about to happen.

Eastern Lordaeron, Lake Meledar

"_Xxeles darun zakaris exle eziek iixil" _a voice muttered in the dark. A paladin ran toward the monster that continued its incoherent muttering, raising his hammer and chanting a prayer. In an instant the hammer began to glow with a golden light before it struck the great beast's thigh.

Standing nearly twice as tall as the man-creature, the dreadlord easily shook off the damage that the paladin had tried to inflict. In a swift movment, the monsterous dreadlord swept the paladin to the ground, atop the bodies of his comrades before placing a single hand, upon which he had placed a magical seal, on the wounded paladin's forehead.

"_Khvarik dies ioea zeka xun" _the dreadlord muttered once more, and suddenly a foul green light emitted from his pale palm, as he devoured the magic and essence of the fallen paladin. Of those in the convoy, he would be the most gratifying to consume. The man screamed as the very fabric of his being was twisted and torn like wet cloth.

When he was done, the human was nothing more than a pile of steaming flesh and molten metal. Satisfied, the dreadlord turned to face a man clothed in black attire.

"Lord…" the man spoke "The Plague caravans now spread across the land, and even though the humans in the west were alerted to their presence, they can do nothing now to stop them all. The one you spoke of intends to move this way. He falls into your trap as easily as you had planned, though; he slew Kel'thuzad, Grand Master of the Cult"

The massive creature moved out of the darkness to face the terrified man. Great, black wings spread to their fullest, and the pastel white skin of the dreadlord glistened with blood in the dark night lit only by the moon. He, Master Mantus Dimis of the Cult of the Damned, had watched the entire spectacle.

"Indeed, I have foreseen that he shall aid us in our endeavor, in one way or another. He is essential to the Lich King's plan, if he proves strong enough. You and the Cult shall continue to follow the caravans and raise the army that will scourge humanity from this world"

"Yes, my Lord, Mal'ganis" Dimis slowly turned away, and mounted his dark horse, riding off into the windless night. Where the Plague killed the humans, the Scourge would rise.

The huge Mal'ganis turned to face a Pool of Scrying he had created in the pools of blood that the slain warriors had leaked, crouched in the shadows, and let loose a spell of demonic fel magic. In it he witnessed the Scourge's formation, the destruction of already countless towns from the Plague and undead. In it, he also saw the chosen one of the Lich King, master of the undead Scourge whom resided atop the Frozen Throne, as he desperately tried to hold back the undead. Indeed, his very emotion and goal to save his people would prove his downfall.

What had been long in the waiting had finally begun.

The fires of destiny were now at hand.

In the distance, a caravan from Andorhol passed along a road toward the city of Stratholme, carrying the plagued grain.


	7. Chapter 6: Sowing the Wind

**Chapter 6: Sowing the Wind**

Hearthglen

The siege had continued for more than a week now. The garrison of men and those regiments of the Army that had followed Arthas manned the barricades while peasants and townspeople scrounged up what little remained of the food supply from the pens and stores.

Many had already broken under the exhaustion, leaving even fewer to defend the beleaguered town. As bad as it was, every day the undead would attack in larger numbers, overrunning entire compounds and preset barriers of resistance. The town itself was in shambles. Not a single building remained intact. The few that had not already caught fire suffered great gashes in their walls, and the Arthas had sent the women and children to the base of the mountains, perhaps the safest area away from the battlefield.

The bodies of the slain and the fallen warriors of the Scourge were burned, giving off a horrid stench that permeated everything, the smell of burned flesh and death.

Over a thousand men were battle ready when Arthas had arrived, bringing with him another few hundred, plus the soldiers whom had escaped from Mardenholde Keep to the southeast. Now though, there were barely even seven hundred equipped and able. The rest had either been taken by battle, or fallen to exhaustion or wounds. Worst of all, the undead had kept the defenders awake all the night long, continuously attacking and bombarding the town. But Arthas had rallied the men, even as they had fled several times from the seemingly unstoppable force ahead them.

The cries of battle rose from the east battlement again. Not even able to run anymore, Arthas limped toward the barricade where yet another wall of undead approached. The dwarven regiment that had been assigned to the town let loose their blunderbusses, and for a moment the front was covered in a thick yellow smoke curling from the barrels of the guns.

A sergeant cried out, and archers let loose their strained bows, quickly emptying their quivers. As the projectiles impacted the undead, many fell to the blows, but more continued onward, trampling on the bodies of those in the rank and file afore them.

"Pikes!" Arthas shouted out. A phalanx of men-at-arms armed with the long shafted sticks came up out of the reserve, and filled the gap as the dwarven gunners fell behind the barricade. One of the great monsters that Arthas had overheard the men calling 'stitches' and 'abominations' shoved its way forward, past the lines of skeletons and ghouls rushing forward, carelessly flailing its numerous arms, each one carrying a deadly looking blade. The thing growled unnaturally and its white-orb-eyes rolled forward, catching Arthas's quick gaze. Indeed there was a kind of strange intelligence in the thing.

The abomination was caught in the spines of the hedgehog pike formation, but pushed on regardless of its own welfare; pus and putrid blood flowed from its wounds as it raised its various appendages menacingly, and swinging down at the tiny men below it. As the soldiers went flying, a sudden great crackling of lightning was heard from the cloudy skies, and an unnatural blade of light lanced into the creature's head, causing the gushing blood to cover the men below. As the abomination fell, its exposed organs spilled onto the floor, making it slippery and wet. Twisting his head, Arthas spotted the elf Cyrus. Indeed, he was a practiced priest as well as mage. Many in Quel'thalas were able to master several arts of magic.

From behind, the great mass of undead piling onto each other clambered their way into the line. With fury and frustration Arthas threw himself into the fray, swinging the massive mace to and fro along with the soldiers. He was no longer in control, nor needed to be. The men knew what needed doing.

The disturbing moan of the living dead wailed through the skies, further angering Arthas. He threw all his emotion into the swings, making sure to destroy as many of the creatures as he could. Exhausted, he panted as he located another target amidst the chaos. Sharp pain exploded as a well calculated blade thrust from behind cut into his armor. Arthas cried out in pain as the blood shot out from below his shoulder blade. He had narrowly missed death, pulling away from the weapon's blow before it protruded any deeper. The dexterity, agility, and motor ability of the undead still surprised him. Some, it seemed, even retained portions of their former selves, through fighting styles, or movement. Indeed, there were the creatures that had seemed to command above the necromancers, the skeletal liches, empowered with devastating abilities. Each time one had visited the battle site, they had wreaked mass damage and havoc upon the defenders. They were terror incarnate, etching themselves on the souls of the men who saw them, including Arthas. None had been killed, or even touched yet. A strange shield of frost magic seemed to protect them from the blows of weapons.

As the clusters of undead were battered down by the able footmen, Arthas spotted another force moving up towards the south barricade.

"Damn it all!" Arthas spat "They come in waves…" his voice was lost in the growing roar of combat. Above, the skies began to open, and the golden light of the sun began to flood through for the first time in days.

Eastern Lordaeron

"**_And you sent the Scourge?" _**the voice implored.

"I did as you had commanded" the massive dreadlord replied.

"**_Then both he and this land shall soon fall into the hands of me, and your masters. It begins with him, the first Death Knight of my service"_** the voice said.

"Yes. The Legion is quite impatient. After all, they have awaited this time for 10,000 years, Lich King" Mal'ganis returned "The Plague caravans have been sent across the land, and the catches in the Scholomance beneath ancient Caer Darrow are being prepared as you requested"

"**_Thus unfolds our strategy" _**the infinite voice echoed in Mal'ganis's head.

Breaking his link with the Lich King was not easy. Many times Mal'ganis believed that the demon lord Kil'jaeden had presented Ner'zhul far too much power. The Circle of Dreadlords had trouble keeping him in check at times, and who knew what he was plotting in that nigh indestructible case of ice his spirit was imprisoned in.

In any case, the Lich King was a puppet of the Legion, to be used to rid this wretched land of the humans and their kingdoms. But he was powerful. Powerful enough for Mal'ganis to even feel some tension when he spoke with the dreaded ether.

"I hunger for more blood" Mal'ganis spoke to himself. He had grown quite accustomed to drinking the life force of the pitiful humans, though it never quite seemed to sate him as the fel magics of the greater Legion did. Having arrived the last of the Circle to Azeroth, being the most powerful thus hardest to try and gain entry, he hadn't had much time to discover his enemy. Other than his command from the Twisting Nether, he still did not know much about the humans and their allies.

"Vizzard!" he called into the darkness of the long abandoned dungeon. Footsteps greeted his answer as a single man came to greet the massive dreadlord. Vizzard was a young male human, whom had long been in the employ of the Legion. Initially a member of the Guardians of Tirisfal, a secretive and most annoying conglomeration of mages and magic-wielders bent on keeping the Legion from Azeroth, he had since been enticed by his study in the numerous realms beyond his own, similar to the way Kel'thuzad had been drawn to the Lich King through his intrigue in the arts of necromancy. Though he looked young, he was in fact many decades old, preserved by arcane energy that he wrapped around himself.

This day he served in the court of Lordaeron as an advisor, albeit a very mysterious one, always coming and going with pieces of information for the King. The man was very skilled in harnessing energy from beyond his world, and had helped initially in bringing the Circle into this world.

"You called, master?" Vizzard inquired. Beams of light shot down from above the grating, where the people of Stratholme moved about freely.

"Tell more of this land" Mal'ganis said in broken sentences, his cold and calculating eyes now fixed upon Vizzard.

"What would you like to know? My knowledge is always of use to the Legion"

"Tell me of the human nations. And how strong shall be their resistance when we reach the intended level of destruction to where they begin to fear us" Mal'ganis said ravenously. So far he only had information on the chosen one of the Lich King, whom was supposedly a great piece in his plan for the downfall of men. The thought of killing and eating the life force of many humans was a very appetizing one.

"There are seven my lord. Well, six nations in reality. The strongest by far is Lordaeron, though the Plague that we spread should dramatically decrease their power, though it might not be enough to stop all resistance. Thus, I have set within the Court of the King dissent and the seeds of civil war through many years I have been in the service of the Legion. When the time is right and their stakes high enough, they shall fight amongst themselves as the burning skies crash down upon their heads, effectively eliminating Lordaeron as a hindrance as were the Night Elves 10,000 years ago"

"Indeed. Continue" his voice echoed, cool, yet malevolent.

"There is Azeroth, or Stormwind. It was devastated by your pawns the orcs in war years ago. They have rebuilt themselves to a large extent, but to this day are far weaker than they were before. However, they are in the far south of the lands, and will be the least of our problems, even though they are nearly as strong as Lordaeron. By the time we reach their gates, the Legion will have consumed all the northern lands and Kalimdor. There is also Stromgarde, a nation of warriors with a long tradition of fighting. They will meet us head on, but have nearly no wielders of magic to hurt us. They shall fall. The same goes for Gilneas. There is also Kul Tiras, a realm of people accustomed to weak peace and whom believe the waters around their land protect them. It is a matter of time before their demise"

"Tell me of their Alliance" Mal'ganis now said, piquing his interst. Dreadlords had always been fascinated in learning their enemies, ever since the times immemorial. Long had the Nathrazim turned their enemies against each other from inside, under the cover of their own politics and culture. It was almost a form of art, destroying a civilization that was.

"The Alliance is a grouping of Lordaeron, Azeroth, Kul Tiras, the occupied territories of Alterac, and the dwarves of the southern mountains. They used to include in their ranks those from the elves of Quel'thalas, and the remaining human nations, but my politicking as well as that of a certain Lord Prestor, whom I correctly surmised as Neltharion the Deathwing in disguise, were able to create unbearable tension between the nations and cause great weakening within the Alliance. To this day they continue to fight the orcs that remain in their lands. It seems that your first attempt at entry into this world only strengthened the resolve of these people, but now that their wars are over, they are quick to inaction and peace mongering"

"Very well" Mal'ganis bellowed "It is time to pressure the Alliance, and Ner'zhul's chosen one, this Arthas Menethil"

King's Road, near Hearthglen

"Faster damn it!" Uther cried out. The wind felt like it was ripping into his skin as he led a long column of knights and paladins mounted to the aid of his beleaguer apprentice.

"Sire, we're already pushing the horses as fast as they can go. By the time we get into battle they'll have nothing left in them" an aid' decamp spoke up as the massive column sent up a great plume of dust.

"If we don't go faster, Hearthglen will fall, and with it the only Prince of Lordaeron" Uther retorted, as if brushing a fly away. "How far behind us is the main force?"

"Excuse me sir?" it was hard enough trying to talk, let alone hear with the numbers of hooves beating the ground and heavy puffs of horses breathing. Uther repeated. "About a mile sire" the aide replied, stretching his long neck to look behind, only to see the glinting armor of hundreds of heavy cavalry.

"…and the town?"

"We'll be coming upon it very soon sire"

Already signs of fighting strew the area. Bodies' days old lay at the sides of the rode, probably a column attacked in the night or the such. Even more dire news was the fall of Mardenholde Keep a few miles to the south. That place had housed many paladins and warriors, a central defensive fortification that had stood for many years in central Lordaeron. Throwing back his graying hair, Uther spurred his horse on faster. The knights followed.

Hearthglen

The clouds had closed in again. Rain would most likely return to make misery even greater. Rivers of blood already flowed from the sites of battle, and the long trail where Arthas had led the men out in the night to ambush another caravan that had been distributing plagued grain to nearby villages.

The wound in his back, that had kept him from the front line, had finally closed allowing him to return, however bandaged up beneath his armor. Arthas could feel his psyche reaching the breaking point about now. Every tendon and muscle ached and strained, and none had had a real meal in over a week. Water was scarce, the villagers risking their lives to climb high into the backing mountains to collect the precious little liquid there was from the creeks. Many of the children and women had already died of thirst, most of the water given to the men who were constantly fighting.

The town was nothing more than smoking rubble now. Here and there a building stood intact, but for the most part the city had burned down leaving skeletal remains and ashes that flowed with the wind. Landmarks like the great town water fountain and the temple dedicated to the Light had long been desecrated by battle. Long had they held at the gates, but eventually even those had fallen. The dwarven riflemen regiment was completely out of ammunition for their bizarre weapons, now fighting with bayonet and courage alone. Most of the men were either down with sickness and wounds or dead. The town center had been taken yesterday, the men putting up a valiant stand and then retreating away from the central plaza and setting barricades in the streets.

None spoke now. All were silent. It added to the atmosphere that Arthas felt might drive him insane, the humiliation at not being able to defend his people, being holed up in this insignificant place by an enemy he couldn't defeat, no matter how many he killed. He had sworn to himself many times over the past few days to do whatever was necessary, even take his own life, to defeat the Scourge, if there even was such a way. In the precious moments that the undead did not attack, his thoughts drifted from Jaina to his father, to the locals of his country, to memories of old, when his father had secretly snuck him out of Lordegarde Keep during the orcish siege, to the time when he first disguised himself as a peasant to walk amongst the people. Now though, in what seemed like an eternity of suffering, all hope did indeed seem lost. Rescue and reinforcements would most likely not come before the next attack, and Arthas knew his men could not hold any more. They were down to a few dozens, perhaps four hundred, holding a small grassy side space next to the merchant warehouses.

Indeed they had retreated not because the undead had occupied land, no, they came until they all died, but because they no longer had the numbers to cover both gates and the entire town. This was the central cut where all the roads in the town met, past the plaza, and backing to the mountains. Barricades and box-sets had been set up in the few adjacent areas to deny any further incursion, but there were too few to hold the weak position. Behind them a few hundred yards were the wounded and remaining townspeople. They would soon all die if this position could not be held.

But this enemy was unlike anything Arthas had ever heard about, ever been taught about. They just kept coming and coming. No matter how many brutal headlong assaults they made, their numbers were limitless, conjuring more dead bodies. If it was all Lordaeron they intended to destroy, then indeed they would be unstoppable, for a country of six million to all be turned under the control of the Scourge? What would there be to stop them then? Nothing…

"Damn you…" Arthas croaked dryly "I am the only one that has the resolve to see this through. It is my duty!" The other men didn't even bother to spare a glance. This Scourge: he could see its hierarchy now for the most part. The necromancers had controlled most of the mindless masses that had attacked them, but some others were free of their command, yet somehow bound by will together, like the horrifying gargoyles which would swoop down and steal the men into the air. Was it the terrifying liches, which exuded a sense of absolute chill in the presence of men? No, it was something different: something bigger, something far more massive than he could comprehend. What was it that drove these undead?

Questions and thirst plagued his mind for these many days as he clung to hope, but it seemed that no help would come. Blinking away the scratchy feeling in his eyes and rubbing the stubble on his chin, he noticed the white and gold banner of Lordaeron, with its great L and surrounding runes embroidered upon it. In the distance, he could hear the sake rumble of the oncoming enemy. Was this what it must have felt like in previous wars? The crumbling walls of sanity held in check only by will?

"Up men" he said quietly "Up men!" louder this time. Soldiers began to stir, most now carrying minor wounds from the weapons of the undead, bandages across their arms and foreheads "We will fight to the last! There is no retreat! There is only your country, and the people behind you! Fight so that they may have hope and run!"

Men now donned their helms, determined and resolute to die. The screams and horror shapes of the undead now approached, the skies matching the moment perfectly. Slowly, the sky began to bleed its life giving rain, first a drizzle, then a steady shower onto the miserable. The banner fluttered for a moment, and then strung itself out completely, revealing its glory.

Blurry vision cleared, and hopes and fears faded as the massive wall came closer. There was only a single purpose, a united will, to show resistance to this dark shadow overcoming the land. This was the battle to be remembered as Hearthglen, and the soldiers would make it one to be remembered.

The two lines collided, and melted into each other. Pain ripped through Arthas's back as his wound reopened, warm blood trickling down his spine. His hair flew wildly as he swung like a madman at the incoming undead, crushing many.

"I won't let you do this!" he screamed at the mindless creatures.

Beside him now, men began to fall, struck by the nightmarish creatures whom now crawled upon them, tearing at their body. Not far down the front Arthas spotted the elf Cyrus, whom in all his haughtiness, had indeed decided to aid the soldiers in the battle. He let loose his impressive skills in the art of magic, each of his summoned lightning bolts taking down an abomination.

"Light, give me strength!" Arthas cried out, uttering a prayer in his mind. Suddenly, he felt the familiar warmth of the faith take hold of his system, and his sores faded away. Blue energy flooded from his eyes as a bright orange aura seemingly cast a fire around him. His hammer too now burned with the fury of the Light, and all that the undead that came in contact with it and himself turned to ashes.

It was the apex of the technique of High Lord Mograine of the Silver Hand whom had used it to fight the summoned dead that the orcish warlocks had used against the Alliance in the Second War. In fact, this was the first time that Arthas had called it forth, even though in his training he had always failed to live up to the name of an apprentice of Uther the Lightbringer. Indeed, Mograine was powerful and a genius to invent such an ability, a paladin whose only match was Uther or former High General Turalyon, Light rest his soul. _He would probably like to test his power against these undead. _Arthas thought, now unconsciously attacking the undead. Indeed, if this war continued, High Lord Berengier Mograine would enter as well, and show his power.

For all his power now however, Arthas's body was not in tune with the awesome energy that surrounded him, not trained enough to withstand its great magnitude. Slowly, as his strength faded, it disappeared, leaving Arthas surrounded by a steaming pile of ashes. Heaving heavily, Arthas noticed now that most of the men surrounding him were dead, their blood mixing with the water from the rain and running freely through the corpse littered street.

There were a few dozen still standing, fighting off the enemy with their blades and agility. The force slowly gave ground, grouping together, consistently pounded by the endless enemy. This was by far their greatest attack since the siege had begun. Arthas spotted the lone banner, planted between two cobblestones and picked it up, holding it aloft for the men to rally to him.

"For Lordaeron!" Arthas cried out, now without hope. From all sides now the Scourge closed in, preparing for its final attack to break the few defenders left.

Suddenly, brass trumpets could be heard from the west. A distant beat grew into a thunderous rampage of hooves clashing with the ground. Without any feeling left in him, Arthas glanced to the west, and the undead stopped their advance all at once; all eyes turned to the west.

"For Lordaeron! For the King!" a voice echoed out in the distance. Arthas instantly recognized it; Uther. So he had finally come. From the elevated rode position that they now held, Arthas could see a vast wave of knights clad in gleaming armor pour into the wide avenues of the city. They had been saved at the last minute.

As Uther and his knights approached, cutting off the main undead force from the one that had assaulted the defenders, Arthas called out "Uther, your timing couldn't have been better!" as he slicing through yet another ghoul.

"Don't celebrate yet son, this battle's far from over!" the seemingly glowing figure said from atop his horse. Along with the horsemen, the remaining soldiers in the city pushed outward, cleansing the streets of the besieged city.

Hearthglen, 3 Hours later

The battle, for the most part, was over. When the main force of Uther's soldiers had pushed into the city, the undead were routed, and the cavalry chased them down as their command structure was shattered by the sudden loss of their necromancers.

Now, Uther's force of nearly fifteen thousand was mopping up the countryside surrounding Hearthglen, finishing off the last vestiges of resistance. To somewhat of a relief, Jaina had returned with Uther. Not only was it a great weight off his chest to know that she was alive, but her presence seemed to calm the turmoil within him a little.

As the three stood together in the ruined plaza discussing what next to do, and what had occurred over the past few days. Arthas and Jaina explained the meeting with Kel'thuzad, and the mysterious Mal'ganis figure that seemed to be leading the undead. Uther only nodded, and eventually said "I'm surprised that you held things together as long as you did lad. If I hadn't arrived just then-"

Humiliated at his failure to keep things in check and almost losing a battle that had cost the lives of thousands, Arthas felt the flaming bile rise within him again. "Look, I did the best I could Uther. If I'd had a legion of knights riding at my back I would have-"

Jaina noticed the tension rise between the two. Arthas had been shaken to his very core during this week she also noted. He looked like a walking nightmare; bloodshot eyes, stubble, soot and blood all over. Indeed, his honor had been compromised by his near loss.

"Now is not the time to be choking on pride, Arthas. This was only the beginning. The undead ranks are bolstered with every warrior of ours that falls in battle. I've called up every reserve and regiment in Lordaeron to prepare for battle. It's obvious that this is going to be a war"

"Then let's strike at their leader!" Arthas said vehemently "I'll go to Stratholme and kill Mal'ganis myself if I have to.

"Peace lad. Brave as you are, you can't hope to defeat a man who commands the dead all by yourself" Uther said in a fatherly tone.

Arthas, clearely annoyed, turned to Uther, flame in his eyes "Then feel free to tag along Uther. I'm going with, or without you"

"It sounds a bit like a trap, Arthas" Uther now said, now stern.

"I don't care. I'll do whatever it takes to kill Mal'ganis" Arthas retorted, already heading back to the newly set up base camp. He shot a venomous gaze in the direction of Stratholme, and clenched his fist. Mal'ganis would be the next to feel his wrath, he swore under his breath.

The next morning, the army packed camp and took to the rode again, this time heading for Stratholme.

State of the Alliance Military at the time of the Battle of Hearthglen

Though greatly bloodied in the Second War, the Alliance ranks have been refilled with a new generation of soldiers eager to fight for their nation. Although not as great as before, the might and pride of the Alliance countries rests in these armies, now scattered across the lands in peace keeping operations, orc deternment camps, and manning the forts across both the continents of Lordaeron and Azeroth.

Over one hundred thousand soldiers are inducted in the Alliance's armies and navies at this point in time, though they are not greatly concentrated, thus taking much time to gather up the full strength of the Alliance. However, at the behest of Alliance High Command, all forces have been called up and now prepare for battle. Drafting is also a technique used by the Alliance, however, only when the need becomes great enough.

Read n' reviews please and thanks


	8. Chapter 7: The Spiral Downward

**Chapter 7: The Spiral Downward**

Hearthglen

Cyrus Faim'las peered around him at the smoldering ruins of the city known as Hearthglen. A building collapsed in the background as he stood up straight, looking over the body of yet another young man whom had perished in the conflict.

"Indeed, if it's Stratholme where you are demon, then that's where we'll chase you" he whispered to himself. In these past days during the worst of the siege, he had felt the unholy presence of the tainted Legion growing closer as he meditated, searching along the canals of arcane energy that interweaved with the world. He too had made it his own personal vendetta to rid Azeroth of this demon.

During the time when he had first felt him, he at first tried scrying with a bowl of holy water he brought with him from his journeys through the human lands, but had only encountered an endless tunnel of malice and darkness. There, in that tunnel, he had felt a terrible, foul magic; undoubtedly the demonic, origin…the Twisting Nether. What did that mean? Was it that the Legion was planning to return soon? If so, how?

"_Ish nu alah _Cyrus" a voice broke the silence "we should follow this army. Their destination lies with our goal. The discovery and eradication of this sickness" the harsh rasp came from the elder mage Tarris Phoenixfeather, an elf that had come to demand great respect in the halls of Silvermoon and Dalaran. Long had he lived, nearly five thousand years. This elf was nearly a living legend, but had purposefully lowered himself to Cyrus's level, whom was several generations younger than himself, offering to work as an equal. It was a great honor. He had come from the court of Lordegarde with Uther the Lightbringer bearing a mission from none other than King Anasterian Sunstrider, one of utmost importance.

"_Ish nu dal dieb, _Tarris. Yes, we ought to move along with these humans" Cyrus replied, closing his eyes to feel once again the incoming taint. "Silvermoon should be warned. They cannot feel this dread nearing from behind the Runestones. That is their greatest setback; they defend, yet blind us"

"Indeed. Talking of humans, have you felt the energy around their Prince Arthas? His mood?"

"Of course. The man is greatly troubled by-"Cyrus was cut off by his elder.

"Not that. Its as if his emotion is affecting his entire core, his morals, his power, his conscious. And the air around him…its…almost as if…he's been marked for some reason or the other by this Mal'ganis"

Cyrus stared at Tarris' withering features. He did indeed feel the magic that surrounded Arthas. He would one day, undoubtedly be powerful, in whatever art of magic he chose to stray into. Yet, there was a certain feel about him; something strange, as if something far off was keeping its eye on him, judging him, and testing his resolve. But it was so faint that Cyrus could hardly make it out. Was it even worth the worry at this moment?

"No, I don't feel much" Cyrus lied. They had to stay on task. It wasn't their mission to determine whether Arthas was being targeted or not for one reason or the other.

"I could have sworn that that boy is…never mind. In any case, I believe that this demon, Mal'ganis, whom commands the Scourge is working in close conjunction with the great Enemy from beyond the borders of our world"

"Yes _shansash _(corrupted Darnassiun for "Honored Teacher"); I have felt his blight upon Azeroth for some days now. Let us continue our mission, and follow these humans" Cyrus finished, speaking in the elven tongue.

Something definitely was wrong here. It was as if the air in the land was beginning to clump together, to coagulate and suffocate those who could read the tides of magic. But what was it? Was it the burning shadow that had returned to consume the world? If it was so, then it would be even greater responsibility to not only himself, but all High Elves, to stop such an invasion from happening. Indeed, even behind the Runestones of Quel'thalas King Sunstrider had felt it. Then if such feeling was potent enough within the magical barriers of the mystic forests there, then this was something very, very dark. Before joining the column of soldiers heading off the King's Road, Cyrus looked to the skies, as if expecting to see the clouds twist, and the heavens rain fire.

One Day Later, along the King's Road

_Faster! _Arthas's mind screamed. Already his legs and body burned from the long run. He hadn't stopped for more than a few hours to obtain much needed sleep and food before getting on the road again. He was far ahead of the column, by himself. Long ago his personal guard had collapsed on the side of the road, unable to continue.

No, this time, he would stop Mal'ganis and the Scourge. Reports came in every hour from another village infected, another attack by the undead. In fact, there was a certain pattern building up in the attacks; a strategy. There were now entire swathes of land cleared of human communication in the Northern provinces, and from those places the undead armies were emerging. In the east, many of the smaller armies now began to group into a large force, and in the north, the undead pillaged unchecked. Only now was Lordaeron's and the Alliance's military beginning to see the growing threat.

_It is a war, born from the death of those people, _his mind said over and over. The only way to stop it, to end the infinite ranks of the undead that were now pouring over fortresses and cities, was to kill this Mal'ganis.

The forest he ran in was dark, lit only by the small street lamps that had contributed to the safe name of the great King's Road. The clouds had broken, but yet another storm was on its way, its humid air crawling ahead of it. The dark trees rustled quietly as Arthas ran past into the growing bleakness of the night. Above, the oncoming storm clouds were painted a pastel purple and orange by the sun's retirement to the night. A small, peaceful hamlet lay off to the south.

The hamlet reminded Arthas of his duty. _To protect and cherish the traditions of the people of Lordaeron and to uphold the law and justice of the land .To take the oath as King one day and work in the service of the people, and do what was best for Lordaeron, most glorious of all nations. _Yes, that was what he had been taught countless times, and what he had felt when he mingled amongst the people in the countryside, at the side of his beloved father, whom taught him always to be a benevolent, but just ruler.

As Arthas passed the cross roads that headed toward the small hamlet, a figure dressed in tattered cloth approached him. Slowing, Arthas called out "Old man, make your way for the Prince of Lordaeron!"

"Greetings, young Prince" the voice was as if the embodiment of wisdom and calmness; the voice of one whom had seen tragedies and triumphs, one whom had long struggled past his years to preserve something precious "I was hoping to find you here. We must talk". He placed his wizened old hand on Arthas's shoulder plate, and stared directly into his eyes; emerald eyes, eyes that held many years.

Suddenly, Arthas recognized the man. Looking over his clothing, and the description of his unique voice, Arthas knew him to be the one whom had interrupted his father's court. The madman whom had tried to get King Terenes Menethil II of Lordaeron to uproot everything he had worked for in the past seventy years and sail into the uncharted, and dangerous western seas.

"I have no time for this" Arthas retorted angrily, brushing the old man's hand off his shoulder. "I know of you"

"Indeed you do. Your father most likely told you the story of a crazed old man, too long gone from youth to know his own sanity. But that is not my point, son" the old man cackled. "Listen boy. This land is lost. The shadow has already fallen, and nothing you do can deter it. If you truly wish to save your people, lead them west…across the sea, for I have seen the face of the future, a future that holds nothing but death and ashes for this land. Things that you could never dream of"

"Flee? My place is here and my only course is to defend my people!"

"Then your choice is already made. Just remember, the harder you strive to slay your enemies, the faster you'll deliver your people right into their hands" the Old Man said resignedly, sadness etched upon his face. He slowly turned away, and suddenly a great green light burst forth from him, leaving nothing but a raven, which quickly fluttered away.

"Indeed like my father said…" Arthas said dryly. He watched in silence as the bird withdrew, flying away. Nothing, not even so abrupt and random as this, would stop him. Not even if it led to his own death.

More rustling came from the bushes along the road, and Arthas turned his head. Slowly, as if a cloak of invisibility fell, Jaina appeared. _Damn it._

"I'm sorry for concealing myself Arthas, I just want to-"she tried to explain herself.

"Don't say it!" Arthas growled.

"I sense tremendous power about him Arthas…maybe he's right. Maybe he does know what will happen" Jaina said cautiously. "This isn't the first time I've seen him, you know"

"I don't care if that madman has seen the future" Arthas said, with a look of betrayal on his face. "You know as well as I do that he's a raving lunatic. There's only one way to defeat the Scourge and save my people, and that's by killing Mal'ganis" and with that, he continued to run off into the distance.

Behind, Jaina shook her head. Long had she been pressured to live up to her father's name, the great Admiral and King Proudmoore of Kul Tiras, and had always striven to do so by becoming as powerful and knowledgeable in the arts of magic as possible. She had been around the likes of great Elven wizards, and even the most powerful humanity had to offer, Archmage Antodias, but nothing, _nothing _had ever seemed to touch the ambient magic of the land like this man. She had felt it now twice, in Dalaran, and here. Was he telling the truth? How powerful indeed was he, no…what was he?

Stratholme outskirts, the next morning

Stratholme. Uther could now see the lights of the city in the darkness of early morning. The placid city would wake soon to a new day, but was it to be a happy one? Soon they would arrive at the army's base camp, which would rise next to Stratholme like a twin city of colorful tents and wagons. Mal'ganis had undoubtedly raised an army, and now the only question was, what would he do with it?

Kel'thuzad had insisted, as Arthas had described, that the Prince and his followers go to Stratholme and find out the 'truth' for themselves, and that this dreadlord (a demon, Uther guessed) was somewhere here. Behind him his envoy of Paladins rode, one hundred strong. After the Siege of Hearthglen, Arthas had taken off with almost no word of his heading, stating to Uther only once that he would be going to Stratholme, taking Uther's entire army with him, leaving him only a hollow invitation to tag along. After all, a Prince of Lordaeron did outrank even a High General as Uther was.

Yet, the last meeting between the two had been extremely strained, Arthas forgetting all the lessons that Uther had taught him. Just what had occurred to Arthas during those days under the siege? Had it brought him to his breaking point?

"It sounds too much like a trap" Uther muttered, rubbing his red-grey beard. In the early morning mist, the holy knight's mounts neighed and clacked on the cobblestone cross country street, the final ending of the many-leagues-long King's Road. A slight drizzle began to fall as the small group pioneered the raising curtains of darkness. Suddenly, Uther noticed that the forest around them was all too quiet. Raising a hand, he indicated to those in the second rank behind him that something was in the trees. Silently dismounting, he grabbed his silver warhammer with it's golden engraving in it as the other paladins did.

A hiss rose from the bushes.

Now, terrible moans as well.

The noises multiplied.

Suddenly, Uther found himself being stared straight back at by a pair of red orbs within the concealing darkness of the treetops.

"Knights! Prepare for battle!" he cried out, and an unanticipated flood of undead rushed from all sides.

"For the Alliance!" the cry arose, and the paladins rushed into battle.

In a swirling action of hammer and golden fire the paladins let loose their spells derived from the magic of the Holy Light, blazing flames and seals unleashed. Uther threw his bulk against a ghoul that had felled the mount of one of the paladins near him, sending it to the ground, crushing its deformed head with his massive hammer.

From behind another undead corpse ran towards him, this time armed with a long-sword.

"Damn, they retain they're dexterity" Uther spat, blocking the sword blow by reaching his great mace over his shoulder blade, quickly twisting to kick the monstrous being and again thrust it into the Great Dark Beyond.

"Stay where you belong, I release you!" Uther cried out into a massive combine of incoming undead. Raising his hand, and letting the Holy Light take a hold of his body, he channeled the magic into the ground, consecrating it with holy fire. As the undead rushed toward him they began to crumble, unable to resist the life supporting magic.

"Find they're necromancers! They are the ones directing these undead!" Uther shouted out to the other paladins as they fought. Releasing more of his stamina into mana for his holy spells, Uther let loose his hammer as it now glowed brightly, cutting through the remaining waves of undead as they rushed toward him.

With a bellowing cry, Uther ran into the next wave of undead.

"_Iluvet dar nodros_!" he called out, venting a shield of magical energy that surrounded his body fully, making him impervious to the physical attacks of these unnatural beings. After laying his hammer which still steamed with the glory of the Light's blessing on the last enemy, the attack seemed to have stopped.

"I'm getting to old for fighting" Uther said, feeling the creaks in his bones. Just last month he had turned 64, yet even so had not even been scratched in the battle that had just occurred; a testament to his earlier years.

Gathering the paladins, of which not one had fallen in the sudden onslaught, Uther set a rearguard to watch for any more incoming undead. Indeed, it seemed as if this Kel'thuzad had told the truth. This was most likely a probing force, to test the strength of the forces now pouring into the Stratholme area. It was as if an imminent attack was about to appear in Stratholme. No longer would these people enjoy happiness this day.

After examining the damage of the attack, in which masterfully all paladins survived, Uther prepared to move out again.

"Lightbringer, we should reach Prince Arthas soon and tell him of this attack. This is definently a prelude to a larger force" spoke one of his paladin comrades, a certain Taelan Fordring, son of the disgraced Tirion Fordring (once a paladin of great influence). In reality, young Taelan was correct, but this force had no true knowledge of the undead cell in this area. In any case, it was still they're duty to report this affront and aid Prince Arthas in destroying the undead army that was somewhere around Stratholme, and hopefully end this reign of destruction that had already cost many thousands of lives.

"Lets get moving then. Better hurry before the roads get muddy, looks like its going to be a messy day" Uther said, peering at the gray sky.

2nd Army Headquarters, Bardton 

Arthas looked angrily in the direction of the latest undead attack. His troops had set up camp the previous night, but had been harried by small forays and flank raids by the Scourge all morning. The opposing main force had not been sighted yet. Stratholme lay in the distance, its spires barely visible in the thick mist.

The army had camped in a small hamlet just west of Stratholme, waiting for the supply vans to catch up before moving on to give chase to Mal'ganis.

As a column of infantry moved toward the latest incursion, a rumble of hooves was heard from the opposite direction, back toward the King's Road. Turning to see the newcomers, Arthas beheld a procession of knights, armor bloodied and covered in the grime of war; at their fore rode a large barrel of a man, instantly recognizable by his massive war hammer and unique plate and style; Uther.

As Uther continued into the camp, a crowd of men drew near him, asking for his blessing. He strictly continued onward, intent only in talking to Arthas. Behind him his paladins filed in perfect rank, though dirtied. They had been in a fight of late.

"Glad you could make it…_Uther" _Arthas left off, carrying a distinct undercurrent in his voice.

"Watch your tone with me boy" Uther replied, glaring at his former subordinate as he dismounted "You may be the Prince but I'm still your superior as a paladin"

"As if I could forget. Listen Uther, there's something you should know about the Plague" the younger said, changing the subject to the more important topic. The sky had now opened into full tears, as if mourning the day to come. Beyond the ridges to the east and north the sounds of fighting could be heard, elements of the army coming into contact with the Scourge.

Arthas unraveled a piece of parchment on the table where he had strewn his maps. Upon the regal map, the seal of Lordaeron was imprinted in the upper corner, and a full geography of continent lay.

"We discovered the Plague first in Andorhol after chasing several of the death Cultists to the city from Alterac. From what we've gathered in the past few weeks, its clear that the Cultists are a sub-group working in conjunction with a demon named Mal'ganis to spread the Plague. The Plague itself is a magical work, something impossibly complex not even the Elves in our company have been able to decipher. However, its nature is clear: Kill the one infected, and raise them once again, as one of the undead"

"By the Light!" gasped Uther "This is…this is on a scale far greater than we predicted"

"Indeed" Arthas replied "The Cult of the Damned, as they call themselves, have infiltrated into almost every aspect of Lordaeron, from humble farm folk to politicians and lords. And while we were chasing the orcs around, the Cult cells activated and began sending out shipments of grain infected with the Plague. We don't know how far the plagued shipments have gotten, but its clear that there's little we can do now to stop them. We…must combat the undead, this, Scourge wherever it appears, and my lord Uther, it will appear very soon. I can feel even now the ambience in the fields of magic being tapped in this land, and in others"

"This is impossible! How could we not have noticed!" Uther cried, wide-eyed. "I've mobilized the armies of the Alliance across all Lordaeron, but I'm not sure if we are prepared to deal with something of this magnitude. Have you noticed any patterns, any movements in the Scourge, their gathering points, their targets?"

"Indeed, where the cultists go, the dead rise" Arthas said, peering at the map. "They seem to infect the outlying villages and then strike at the larger cities, sometimes even without waiting for the plague to infect it. I have come to the conclusion…however hard it is, that everything infected-must die before allowed to join Mal'ganis' fold"

"Uther! Arthas!" a feminine voice carried through the mist, instantly recognizable: Jaina.

In a blink of light, Jaina appeared by the two in the center of the camp "It's Mal'ganis. He's inside the city…collecting the infected. He already has a gigantic force closing in on the city"

Arthas stood for a moment upon the small hill, peering toward the silhouette of the second most populace city in Lordaeron, as if deciding the fate of the world. "_There is one way to do this, and one way only"_ he thought.

"They may look fine now, but its only a matter of time before they turn into the undead… This entire city must be purged." he then said, in a low and threatening voice, turning back toward the two.

"What?! How can you even consider that? There's got to be another way!" Uther shouted out, completely taken aback by Arthas.

"Arthas!" Jaina cried out, equally stunned.

A crowd of the army staff and soldiers had followed the courier as Jaina had appeared, making her noise. Everyone began to draw closer. The rain fell in heavy sheets now. The soil could no longer keep the water within it, and slight flooding had begun in the low lying areas.

"Damn it Uther, as your future king I order you to purge this city!" Arthas snapped, throwing the map in the air.

The tension between the two was at a breaking point. Inside his heart, Uther felt something tear.

"Sire, we cannot follow that order" a paladin spoke up.

"You are not my king yet _boy_. Nor would I obey that command, EVEN IF YOU WERE. You are a paladin, one of our Order. I cannot allow you to do this" Uther hissed, stepping toward Arthas menacingly.

"Then I must consider this an act of treason" Arthas said, coolly now. Resolve flowed through his mind.

"_Treason?! _Have you lost your MIND Arthas!" Uther's voice broke, his eyes set firmly upon Arthas, a glaring look that melted into everybody's minds.

"Have I? Lord Uther, by my right of succession and the sovereignty of my crown, I hereby relieve you of your command, and suspend you paladins from service" with a single gesture, he tore the insignia of the Order of the Silver Hand from his breastplate and threw it on the ground. It was done.

The paladins behind Uther stood aghast. Gasps rose from the crowd, and Uther stood below Arthas, his glare boring straight into Arthas's soul.

"Arthas, you can't just-" Jaina interjected, only to be cut off.

"Its done!" He screamed, waving his hand in the opposite direction of the city distant Straholme "Those of you who have the will to save this land-follow me-the rest of you…get out of my sight!"

The paladins behind Uther now split, some joining Arthas's camp, others remaining where they stood.

"This is madness!" another paladin cried out.

"You've just crossed a terrible threshold Arthas" Uther growled, turning away from his prized pupil, and adopted nephew to join those departing from the hamlet, unable to accept what their prince was about to do.

Among them was Jaina.

Arthas called out her name, looking desperately in her eyes. "Stay here with me. Help me kill Mal'ganis" he said, nearing her.

"No…I'm sorry Arthas, I can't watch you do this" she said, absolutely shocked by the ordeal.

"Fine" he said, flat, feeling no emotion now. Turning, he returned to his camp, where the men now lit torches and prepared great tubs of tar and peat. Looking back toward the knights and paladins now mounted and riding away, he caught the glance of Uther, now only a black figure, far off in the mist.

As his commanders gathered around him, he gave the order "Burn the city".

Silently, columns of footmen entered the city, killing all in their path, even the city guard. Soon enough, the metropolis was alight.

(Author: Reviews help the story come along guys. Constructive criticism allows me to write better! Feedback is always appreciated)


	9. Chapter 8: Lure of Revenge

**Chapter 8: Lure of Revenge**

It had been a hard ride, through the abominable storms that had plagued the eastern skies during the night, but Uther and his company of paladins had made it to the small city of Corin's Crossing, where the 6th Army was stationed.

There had been reports during the night of another undead army that had risen near the old Lake Darrow Crypt blocking the road back to Stratholme.

"I intend to bring Arthas into my custody under permission of the King" Uther had declared to his confused paladins, as they had set off the day before.

"You mean to say you are going to arrest the Prince of Lordaeron?" the apprentice Talaen Fordring had quipped while he briefed his followers.

"Correct. Under terms of obstructing justice and murder of innocents" Uther stated, turning his back and jumping to his steed before issuing orders to his incredulous troop. Indeed, as it was Uther was powerless to stop Arthas's massacre. He would need a force to back him in his new mission.

Corin's Crossing would not be far, but upon the hilly horizon black plumes of smoke rose…war had come full circle.

Battle plain, Lordaeron, 1 League from Corin's Crossing, 12 Hours Later

"My Gods…" Uther gasped as he and his force came atop a hill after the hard ride.

Before them was displayed a grand set. The Alliance 6th Army, with its reputation for ferocity like that of a demon, covered the vast expanse of grassland that was known as the Wilderplain, a place where much blood had been shed in wars past: a critical strategic point upon the center of the Lordaeron continent where armies had fought and been destroyed in the many long years of history.

Long lines of swordsman and men-at-arms crossed the field whilst packs of horsemen traveled at the flanks, crisscrossing the plain. Near the center of the line rows of archers fired, their missiles making the skies blacken, their hisses audible from even Uther's standpoint. Off to the east crews of dwarves prepared and fired their ingenious cannons, the lumbering masses jolting as their projectiles launched from their smoking muzzles creating the effect of a thunderous symphony in the distance. In the rear the workhorse trebuchets and ballistae were being pushed up by the miniature figures to enter range of the enemy.

Yet Uther could see no force opposing them. Suddenly, a man, whom seemed more like a tiny ant at this vantage point, was spotted running toward the army over the hill on the far side of the plain…now more followed. Soon, a chaotic route was apparent.

"It's a regiment" one soldier spoke among the crowd behind Uther whom watched on.

"No…a division" another spoke.

However the route ended all too soon. Behind the hundreds of fleeing figures a massive wall followed: the Scourge.

From the skies rained their putrid arrows, soaked in poisons, felling many of the retreating footmen, followed by flaming shot, and then massive boulders and return fire from the undead's own artillery. Dark wizards and necromancers opened up with their black magics, the forces of death and decay falling about the hapless defeated.

Nearly as soon as the fleeing forces had made it past the advancing line of men in their bright armor did the undead front slam into their own. The effect was devastating. In seconds the footmen broke, running for their lives.

"They require our aid!" Uther yelled out, slapping his horse and rushing down the hill toward his comrades.

It took little time to reach the pickets, whom instantly recognized the paladins for who they were and allowed them entrance into the battlefield. A certain man on horseback sat erect, red faced but a little behind the next advancing line. It was General Alain Volsung, the prodigy whom had climbed from a mere peasant to one of the most respected leaders of his time during the Second War and peace years.

"Lord General Volsung!" Uther called out, while directing his paladins to aid the wounded and help in the battle. Volsung spotted Uther, and while cursing under his breath worked his way through the patches of soldiers regrouping.

"These cowards! They run! Lord Uther, you must rally these yellow-bellied excuses for warriors!" he spat as he neared the paladin.

"Lord General Volsung, this is not an army with experience. Don't force them like this" Uther retorted immediately, recognizing the situation.

"You think I don't know that?! But they are nearing the town! If we break here, this entire battle corridor falls, and the 8th and 12th Armies will be flanked!" he cried out, smudging the soot on his face in a vain effort to clean it.

"Flanked? How extensive is this fight? What have you gotten yourselves into?" Uther said flatly.

"Gotten ourselves into? No, Sir Lightbringer. It began yesterday, from the small pockets of infected villages entire armies rose and linked together. There are now countless undead in an effective driving force, pushing us back. My 6th Army relieved the 8th and took up this position this morning, but their casters and numbers have driven us back this whole time. I've been forced to redeploy thrice!"

"How many men have you lost?"

"Our casualties are unknown…I didn't think it would be this bad sire, but we're losing all along the towers" he replied, bringing up the old reference of the long battle line.

Immediately strategies started flowing from Uther's head as the younger man explained their situation. Several soldiers about to be sent into the fray observed the great hero.

"When the Lightbringer's mind goes to work, all is well" whispers ran amongst the soldiers.

Slowly orders began to pour out of the field, and the runners that had crowded around the two disappeared, each carrying their own dispatch and orders.

Quickly, Uther found himself a quill lying on the table where Volsung had been administering his forces and wrote a quick letter in cryptic runes, a secret language used by the Alliance High Command in times of dire need.

…_It seems I am unable to save Stratholme…Light forgive me, for I must fight this battle. I pray to you King Terenas Menethil, you must chain your son until he regains his sanity. _

_Uther Lightbringer_

The end of his letter read. As his name implied, the Lightbringer flew from regiment to regiment, aiding the wounded, giving commands, and engaging in the fight. The battle shifted slowly toward the small hamlet of Darrowshire, where certain men prepared to do battle to protect their homes.

The command had been given. Across Lordaeron the dead rose.

Stratholme

Another building crumbled in the spreading fires. From afar, the city of Stratholme was lit in a brilliant red-orange, with great pillars of smoke rising from the ashes. The stench of burning flesh wafted by the wind swept through all the passages and narrow roadways, a harbinger of death to those remaining. Valdar hardened his heart. After the skirmishes around Andorhol Valdar had been promoted to lieutenant of his own knight regiment, which had been reformed after his commander and most of the force had perished in the foolish headlong attack into the undead lines.

As his eighteen knight force entered the city on horseback they were handed sets of flaming torches.

"On orders of the Prince, we are to set fire to all boroughs, all districts of Stratholme. All of the city-folk have been infected by the Plague, and thus you shall destroy them on sight whomsoever they may be" a herald called out as troops entered through the giant arc into the city's main streets.

_"What!?" _Valdar's mind suddenly melted; all order fleeting.

"What did you say?!" he had called out, the herald turning his face at him resignedly, as if dealing with the same situation all day. Under their grilled masks, Valdar was sure his knights wore the same face as him.

"By order of the Crown Prince of Lordaeron, the urban areas of the greater municipality of Stratholme are to be burned to cinders. The undead infection has infested this city, and it is the command of your superiors to destroy this infection by all means necessary to prevent further spread of the Plague. That is all" the herald replied.

"No…that's…that's impossible! You can't destroy an entire city! Your own city!" Valdar had cried out, joined by several of his knights.

"You are duty bound by your oaths to serve the King and his appointed lords! You cannot disobey!" the herald announced.

"And if we do disobey?" an unfamiliar voice inquired. Valdar turned to see a man in the finest coat of plate and mail upon a pure white steed, whose own chain links were polished to a mirror sheen. Behind him sat another few dozen knights, all bearing blue and white plumes and an insignia of a sun on their chest, its rays of light bathing their chest plate in gold, their helmets surrounded by a green wreath.

There was only one unit that was allowed to wear such a suit of armor: one unit distinguished enough, the legendary Luminary Knights of Lordaeron, whom had served in a continual effect throughout all of Lordaeron's history, since its secession from the Arathi Empire. Their exploits were numerous, and their fame preceded them. Valdar was taken aback by the presence of such men, so endowed in their glory and history. This must have been…the Lord Commander Knight-Errant Knecht Claudius, a man whose fame had taken him across nearly all the major battles of the Second War, and even some defending the dwarvish homeland of Khaz Modan before that.

"Then you shall be branded traitors of the state" the herald replied, scowling at the crowd that had suddenly surrounded him demanding answers.

"It is our duty then, to obey the state" Claudius replied "However, know that my knights and I do this under protest, but indeed we must do so for what is there if not order by the single unifying bond of the King and his people?" he then asked rhetorically.

He had almost trembled in the presence of such a figure; Valdar merely bowed his head as the rest of his knights did. Claudius had noticed the honor that they had bestowed upon him, and smiled curtly. "Lift your heads young ones" he said quickly "and do battle for king and country"

Valdar could not refuse the command. It had been hours since the order had been given to destroy the city, and yet it had already felt like an eternity. Valdar struggled deep within the recesses of his mind to come to grips with what he was doing. Already several of his knights had had to be arrested for breaking orders and either looting or refusing to carry out the chain of command.

The ash in the air was thick, each breath harder to take than the last. The heat was nearly unbearable, blisters already gathering on many faces. Once everyday tenements, shops, and storage buildings became bonfires, even the cobblestones becoming nearly impossible to bear, heated to nearly water's boiling point in some places.

Plants went up in flames. Plumes of smoke rose from the condemned tomb of Statholme. Before noon thousands were dead.

Suddenly, screams came from behind a block of buildings. A dozen people, woman and children, came running, eyes filled with fear, a look that burned into Valdar's soul. Where they had hidden for so long Valdar knew not. Following straight behind them were a pack of ghouls. "DAMNATION!" Valdar screamed, kicking his mount up to full speed in the debris filled streets.

_I cannot let them die, _a simple voice called out in his head. Breaking his most sacred vows to the Prince, he and his knights rode to the aid of the beleaguered civilians, giving oaths of battle while riding to towards the chased crowd. Time etched slowly, each moment forever with Valdar. The slavering ghouls were just too fast though. Jumping through the flames more fell upon the screaming mass.

Letting loose a mighty bellow, Valdar threw his blade at the nearest ghoul, cleanly striking off it's head. A ghoul took hold of his mount and bit deeply into its hind legs as it was overwhelmed by the increasing numbers.

Though the momentum of the knights was enough to drive off or kill most of the ghouls. Taking one look at his horse's shredded legs; Valdar dismounted and did what mercy he could for the horse, plunging a long dagger that he found on the floor into the back of its head, instantly killing it.

Blinking the ash out of his vision, Valdar suddenly fell. Too weak to contemplate what he had just done. A blind charge in a street into a mob of the enemy to save a group of townspeople. Those that survived had taken to cover behind what they could find, and now intimidated, peeked their heads out.

Valdar suddenly realized he was sitting in a pool of blood; the blood of those whom had been killed by the ghouls. His revulsion quickly turned to anger, as he stood.

"First Blade, take these civilians safely out of the city. They are not infected" he ordered shakily, tears streaming off his pale face. "…The rest of you with me. It is time to put an end to these undead plaguing out lands!"

The knights dismounted, and on the blood of those dead, swore to save whom they could, and kill all else that moved.

Lordegarde, Tirisfal Glades

The room was quiet, only a single candle flickering in the darkness. A piece of parchment lay on a table, a single figure solitary in the black that surrounded him, writing on the chipped wooden table. The only noise was the scratching of the quill and its thin ink, as well as the rocking of the table, whose legs were inaccurately measured.

The figure raised his head, the long, dark hair trailing behind for moments before being whipped back. Cautiously checking the bleak hallway before walking out, Jaeger Lorydist stuffed the parchment within his simple black robe before scuttling into the nocturnal ambience.

Quietly slipping past the tired guards with the help of a useful little magic trinket one of his subordinates had found for him, the darkened figure of Jaeger as a shadow would, his movements blurred by the strange object. He would meet with his contact tonight, as the full moon's silver shone upon the sleeping land.

It was difficult to maintain his contacts whilst the King had called his foolish councils in the capital. It was made easier however, due to most of the garrisons off fretting about the undead. Silently, after exiting the palace, Jaeger avoided the thinned patrols and took side roads, even having to kick a filthy beggar whom had clung to his cape in search of lowly food. Blackness had enveloped the metropolis, making it far easier to cling to the shadows as the fleeting existence of Jaeger waited patiently at his rendezvous point with his contact.

In a sudden burst of green brilliance, another shadow appeared before Jaeger.

"I have waited long" Jaeger whispered.

"Indeed, but your patience only further impresses our masters" the contact replied "You and your family have waited long for this time, have you not?"

The comment threw Jaeger off. Stunned, he could not reply. The contact's teeth shined as a beam of moonlight reflected off them. "Indeed, we knew already. You did not think our masters would not probe your mind before accepting you as an ally?" again the other man laughed.

The Lorydist family had a dark history. One thousand years ago, after the Arathor Empire's disastrous civil war, a certain noble named Kaisen Lorydist, whom had long advocated for the freedom of the state of Lordaeron, had led the armies of his beloved land against the imperialists of Strom. Winning many battles and fame, the people had cried out for Kaisen, Jaeger's direct ancestor, to be crowned king. It would have been a most glorious of honors for the Lorydists, for whom were even named after Lordearon. However, it was in the turbulent time that the damnable lieutenant-general of the illustrious Kaisen Lorydist backstabbed his friend and ally. His name was none other than Baldar Menethil, of the Menethil family. Baldar Menethil had discovered that Kaisen had been planning to bring increasing wealth and glory to Lordaeron after being crowned King by utilizing forbidden magics, the same kind that had lead to the small invasion of demons in Dalaran a few years prior. Humiliating Kaisen whom refused to budge in his stance on using the magic, Baldar led a revolt against the newly instated monarch and deposed him, stating that usage of such a gift by the Light as this magic was, it would lead to the destruction of the world. It was afterwards, as the people had lost all confidence in Kaisen, that Baldar had claimed the crown, and instated the detestful Menethil Dynasty, sending his one time friend into exile among the wilderness of Lordaeron.

"After everything turned against him, Kaisen Lorydist became embittered and loathful towards the world. His family line continued, always seeking revenge from the shadows. Always seeking to restore their honor and eliminate the Menethil's, even if it costs them their soul. Isn't that how the story goes? And here you are, the last of your family" the contact now hissed.

Jaeger reached for his blade.

"No need, dear lad. You need us and much as we need you" the voice said calmly, offering its hands in the air.

Calming, Jaeger relaxed. "I had thought the world had forgotten completely about us. The despicable Menethil's had us stricken from every history tome, erased our existence. It took me fifteen years to scrap up every piece of evidence I could find to prove the existence of my blood ties with Kaisen Lorydist"

"Indeed. And thus you learned patience, slowly building your holdings, acquiring lands, enough so to even be admitted into the Noble's Chamber. And nobody suspected you, as you gained the favor of the majority of Lordaeron's major nobles in your efforts to overthrow Terenas. Yet, even you know, that with them it is hopeless. That is why you came to us, and that is why, you cannot leave us. You are bound to us until the end, and we to you"

"I don't give a damn about your organization. Continue to formulate your actions in the field and I will provide you with information from within the capital. Weaken Lordaeron enough so that a Lorydist may once more usurp the throne, and you will get your dues"

The last line had the contact snickering. "Hand over the scroll, and we shall depart before someone finds us" he phrased.

Jaeger reached into his black robe, taking out the crumpled paper and handing it to his supposed subordinate. "The Cult of the Damned thanks you once again, Lord Jaeger Lorydist"

And with that, the man disappeared in his flash of light.

Jaeger quietly returned to the castle, where he would again meet a contact, one whom was from the Noble's Chamber. It was time to consolidate more power.

Stratholme, 2 Days Later

Another crowd of ghouls were battered down under the might of Arthas's hammer and his soldier's swords.

Strathome was now almost completely aflame. Hundreds of innocents had been slain by Arthas himself, each of their faces burned into his memory. Yet it was necessary; in order to stop the Plague, he had to cut off its resources, in other words, those whom had already been infected. The whole ordeal had made him feel…less sensitive to death, as if each one of the faces he had bloodied was another chip out of his soul. A seething darkness now lay within his soul.

In any case, it deterred him not from his goal. _He _was here: Mal'ganis. The very air felt foul with a demon's presence. Arthas could feel the disruptions in the flow of the magic, as if an inspiring and terrifying shadow lurked amongst the ruins of the metropolis. It was only a matter of time before he found Mal'ganis, and put the fiend to justice.

It was sudden. A single blast of air threw Arthas onto the bloody cobblestone pavement, and as he cleared the pain out of his head he could see that the men whom had been with him in his guard had been utterly butchered by the powerful explosion.

"I've been waiting for you young Prince…as you can see, your people are now mine" a single articulation filled the air, causing Arthas's chest cavity to vibrate. Amazingly enough, the sound was not incoherent, despite its extremely brass tone.

"Demon" Arthas spat, as he lolled over onto his back, standing up as quickly he could in his hundred pound armor.

Amongst the flames, the two figures stood: The demon and the Prince. Mal'ganis stood at least nine feet tall, armed with no weapon but his razor sharp claws and fangs that had seen the blood of many hundreds, with eyes that seemed to take in the light around them, compressing it into tiny purple dots in the middle of empty sockets. "I am Mal'ganis, leader of this Scourge. With your city as mine, we shall snuff out the light of life forever"

"You filthy BEAST!" Arthas cried, throwing himself at the demon whom easily sidestepped the wide throw, casting a ball of black energy at the exhausted Prince. The searing magic cut through Arthas's armor like a knife through alterac cheese, stopping short by less than a millimeter of his flesh. Raising his hand in the air, Arthas conjured his belief in the Light and activated one of the Seals of Power imbued in paladins, and a fluid reddish-orange light took him as dark runes melted into the ground below.

"We're going to finish this right now, just you and me!" he said, running toward Mal'ganis, whom let forth a vicious grin, showing his rows of teeth. Arthas's hammer glowed a bright blue, surrounded by electrifying energy granted by the Holy Powers. The instant the two clashed, the powers surrounding them rejected each other and canceled out, throwing each fighter back.

"Indeed you are strong, as the Lich King predicted "Brave words you speak, yet your journey of revenge ends not here. Gather your forces, and seek me out in the arctic land of Northrend; it is there that we shall settle out score, and you shall find your destiny"

With incredible speed, Mal'ganis backed away from the fight onto an aged bridge, and uttering evil words, threw his claws into the air, and seemingly tore through space itself, gashing reality, and climbing through the inflicted wound upon the world.

"I'll hunt you to the ends of the earth. Do you hear me!? TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH!!!" Arthas let loose a shout that drained all his energy, and subtly a vow he would never let go of.

As Arthas ran towards the black tear, it quickly healed itself, leaving him standing ankle deep in the blood of his men, alone. Gripping the mace in anger so hard blood had begun to seep from his gauntlet, Arthas turned and began to head back to his camp.

After the last building in Stratholme was alight, Arthas marched the army away from the city now filled with nothing but death and sorrow. The ships were prepared, and the course set. That day, the army would sail to the shores of Northrend.

**End of Act I**

The Light:

The Holy Light of Creation is a variable which has constantly shaped human culture and history throughout its time as a species upon Azeroth. Basic belief holds the Light as a passive, nearly philosophical understanding of surrounding and reason for being, as one feels emotion, it is proof that he or she exists and that they are part of the equilibrium in the universe; a 'piece within a whole' so to say. Feeling secure in their position within the world, such a person can now fully harness the innate powers of the Light, the magical fields that ebb from the heavens and provide soothing, healing, and the establishment of justice.

The Holy Light holds several tenets, known as the Three Virtues, above all others, as upholding these Virtues brings further enlightenment to oneself, as they feel more apart in the world and know their role better, as well as having a clearer vision of the time when their soul will transcend the mortal plane and join the great astral bounds where their ancestors reside, in effect becoming one with the Light. The Three Virtues are central to all acolytes of the Light, whether a peasant, or an initiating scholars, priests, or sages. These three values are:

-Respect –Tenacity –Compassion.

Though accepting all the previously stated facts of the Holy Light, it is possible to touch upon the intense energy that courses through the Celestial Plane, and gathering that energy to carry out the will of the Light. It is believed by many splinter groups that a deity or different Gods exist within the Celestial Plane, but that is considered a non-mainstream belief, as the Light is widely held as the single unifying and underlying power behind creation and the carrying out of life (what exactly is behind its 'Will' is unknown, which is why many have come to believe in great beings of luminosity, whether gods or not, that bring it forth).

Worship of the Light has long since been directed by the thousands of years old Church of the Light, which is centered mainly in Lordaeron, with the Grand Monastery in northern provinces Lordaeron, the Chapel of Lordegarde in the western capital, and the Cathedral of the Righteous in the eastern city of Tyr's Hand as its main centers of worship, however many smaller chapels have sprung up across all the nations of men, Quel'thalas, and even Khaz Modan of the dwarves. The Church is headed by the Arch-Bishop (the most famous of all whom was Alonsus Faol, the great leader of the Church during the Second War), who is the single most endowed and enlightened in all the lands, an office usually held by humans, and only twice by elves. In many cases, the Church is so filled to the brim with texts and old tomes, that its libraries are far larger than the places of worship, and are perhaps the greatest centers of knowledge and history in all of the 7 Countries. During the Second War, the orcs destroyed much of the Tyr's Hand branch of the Church, causing irreparable damage to its great library, which has set back many scholars years as they try to reorganize everything, even in the midst of the growing crisis with the undead.

As the Scourge begins to spread, the followers of the Light see the undead as a pure aberration in the Light, something completely opposite of what should exist in the world, which is truly a horrifying idea, as much so as demons. As one who is devout in the Light views the undead, they see a void that threatens to suck in everything around it, something that defies the laws of reality and cruelly strips a person's body and soul which should go to rest with the Light. It is even proven that this is true, as when spells of healing are cast upon undead flesh, it merely burns it instead of mending. It is for this reason that the Priesthood and the Knights of the Silverhand have been the stoutest enemies of the undead in past generations, and look to defend their faith and their people from them as long as they still draw breath.


	10. Chapter 9: Destiny Divergent

**Act 2**

**Chapter 9: Destiny Divergent**

The story until now: _The waves broke upon one another, vast armies clashing upon the rolling plains of Lordaeron. Already it had begun to chill, the summer's warmth coming to an end, heralding the beginning of another winter. Revelation and war had come across the land. It had begun in the north, where a plague had spread throughout the populace, initially set up by a secret organization known as the Cult of the Damned, whom within their ranks resided several mages trained in the arts of Necromancy, a banned black magic that dealt with the dead and spirits of those whom had passed away. _

_Intending to purify the world of those whom would oppose them, the necromancers had trained their Cult to distribute the plague amongst the populace by implanting it into the precious grain supply of the country, and soon the virulent disease had spread far and wide across Lordaeron. As later discovered, the act was introduced and brought about by the wide ended plans of a demon known as Mal'ganis. As this came to knowledge, the Kirin Tor, the pantheon of magocrats whom ruled over the magical nation of Dalaran, sent several agents to investigate both the origin of the Plague and the connections of Mal'ganis to the vast demonic army that resided in the Twisting Nether, known only as the Burning Legion by the denizens of Azeroth; for it was this same Legion that had in times past attempted to destroy the defenses and will of the mortal peoples of the world subtly, or through force. However, most of this information was unknown by the people of the Alliance, as it was kept under strict tabs by the leading officials to avoid further chaos and panic that had already gripped the countryside. _

_As the Kirin Tor, in combined efforts with a small envoy of High Elves hailing from the mystic land of Quel'thalas investigated the matters and strengthened silently planned for the worst, the dead infected by the Plague of Undeath rose, and under the command of Mal'ganis and his elite necromancers raised vast armies, which were met in the field by the forces of Alliance of Lordaeron. Great battles erupted in the eastern and northern provinces, where the greatest effect of the Plague had taken place, wiping out entire towns and cities. As the people of the Alliance knew war was upon them once again, they girded for the losses, as the unstoppable juggernaut of the Scourge smashed through the Alliance's unready regiments. Fear and instability struck as word of the massive armies of the undead arose nearby, or the Plague struck a nearby town or city. People turned on people, accusing each other of being spies for the Scourge, selling their souls for the price of everlasting life. Others took advantage of the chaos and rioted, stealing from cobblers shops, bakeries, and blacksmiths. As darkness began to cover the land, the defenders of the Alliance looked on in growing despair, and an age old plan comes to fruition as its schemers look on, ravenously eager to destroy the mortals whom have defied their unholy might for so long…_

Somewhere in the Twisting Nether

Darkness and light were one, and in the strange twilight setting the mists of pure and dreadful magic swirled in the infinite space between dimensions. Seconds became years, and years millennia within the incomprehensible realm, all the while only being but a day. To enter into the Twisting Nether was to mean there was no ground, no sky, a realm of pure chaotic darkness inhabited only by the creatures strong enough to harness these elements to their advantage.

And it was here, that these dark forces met.

"Kil'jaeden, will your creation succeed this time?" a voice emanated from the swirling twilight. It was filled with malice, and unnatural intelligence: something that had seen the destruction of a thousand worlds, and the ultimate fate of millions.

"The world of Azeroth will stand not long before the Scourge, for events I have labored over have come to fruition. Where the Horde failed, the Lich King shall not" another conversed, this one less assertive, more analytical, and far more subtle: each word calculated and rehearsed, as if to give secret meaning.

"I do believe it is quite time for these mortals to feel the wrath of the Legion: too long have we they surpassed their expiration, for it was ten thousand years ago that this world should have burned in our hands" another spoke in the demonic eredunic tongue.

Massive bodies shifted in the distance, floating, yet standing, nowhere, yet everywhere. "The Legion's flame shall spread across all world's tainted by the Titans, where we shall erase the existence of order. It is only a matter of time, for no mere mortals can withstand our might" the voice known as Kil'jaeden returned.

"So be it. I shall lead the Legion upon Azeroth, as I did in our last endeavor into that accursed land, and this time, I shall personally make sure the very spirit of the land beneath every footstep we make is utterly…vanquished" the first voice sentenced.

"Patience, Archimond. We have waited for ten thousand years, what is this little time left to us? Our hour draws nigh" Kil'jaeden finished, and the three disappeared into the glittering black.

Ruins of Stratholme, 1 Day later

"So much death…I can't believe Arthas could've done this…" Jaina's voice seemed lost in the cries of the few whom had survived the brutal massacre. The low lying clouds reflected the red flame that still broiled through the city. Many streets were effused with dried blood, the black, sticky substance covering the cobbles. Here and there stunned survivors piled the carcasses and bodies in open mass graves, or even just in sections of the streets.

The white-gold banners of Lordaeron flapped silently, as if in reverence of the horrible crime. Another banner lay in the street, this one bloodied and trampled, pinned to the ground by pieces of wood and stone. A man carrying the blackened and blistered remnants of what seemed to be a child stumbled past her, tossing the body in yet another one of the many pyres across the city.

"Jaina!" The sorceress turned her head to the sound of her name, spotting the hulking form of Uther the Lightbringer, Grand Master of the former Knights of the Silver Hand and High General of the Alliance "Jaina Proudmoore!" he called again.

"Lord Uther?" she replied in a sad tone.

"Ah, I thought I might find you here…where has he gone, girl? Where has Arthas taken the fleet?" Uther commanded, standing fully erect, fire in his eyes.

"He came to me before he left. I pleaded with h - him not to go, I - I told him it sounded like a trap!" she tried desperately to explain, knowing full well she should have told the proper authority about it earlier, as well as knowing the one she cared about was in mortal danger.

"WHERE?" Uther cried out, taking Jaina aback.

"Northrend…he's gone to Northrend to hunt Mal'ganis" she finally admitted, exhausted.

"Damn that boy. I have to inform King Terenas" he sighed, turning away from her "Don't be too hard on yourself, girl. You had nothing to do with this – _slaughter_" he uttered before running off again, disappearing into the swirling smoke.

For hours Jaina wandered the ruins of Stratholme, extinguishing what pain and fire she could with her great powers, yet everywhere she went, the suffering continued. It was as if everything had fallen into ruin and chaos.

Very suddenly however, she felt an aura of calm, and cool collected intellect descend upon her: a feeling of purity and primordial safety. Before her path down one empty street a single crow landed, pecking at the ground, as if looking for grubs.

"You'll find naught in this place but ash and sorrow" Jaina whispered, tears welling up.

Yet before her very eyes, the crow seemed to double its size, now quadruple it, as its black body began to morph, its head bending back, the beak melting away, and its stalk-like legs fleshing out, all while a white-green light burst from its center. Within seconds, the crow was no longer an avian form, but that of a man, standing before her robed in red cloth, with pauldrons of ebon feather.

The man approached her slowly, and finally, standing before her. Even though he was clearly hunching, he was at least a whole head and a half taller than the pale sorceress.

"The dead might lie still for now, but don't be fooled. Your Prince shall find only death in the cold north…" he said, his low brass voice echoed in both her ears and mind.

"You!" Jaina gasped, immediately recognizing the man as the Prophet whom had come before Archmage Antodias, Arthas, and as she had heard, King Terenas. The stranger, prophet, whatever he was…there was a feel about him, an aura unlike anything Jaina had ever encountered. It was as if where he walked, the currents of magic shifted and acclaimed to him, something she could see in the high level mages of the Kirin Tor, especially Antodias, but never like this. The power was so much that the atmosphere around this…this man, seemed to haze like the air on a hot summer's day.

"Just what are you?" she stammered, "What is it that you have seen in these dark hours, and just how much of it is true!"

"Peace, child. I come bearing the warnings of a future inevitable, one which will see all this land burn in the unholy fires. No matter how hard I strive to stop, or at least avert, this coming doom, none will heed the call. Not even your Prince" the man replied.

"Arthas is only doing what he believes is right!" Jaina protested, her heart racing, at the thoughts of Arthas's peril, his crime here, and what this old man was announcing.

"Commendable as that may be," the Prophet continued, "his passions will be his undoing. So it falls to you, young Princess of Kul Tiras, and sorceress of the Violet Citadel. You must lead your people west, to the forgotten lands of Kalimdor, and there, save this world from the flame"

"Why would you even think of telling me such things?" Jaina asked, searching for some kind of concrete answer around all the Prophet's cryptic words.

"You have more power in you than you could ever imagine young one, and a mind and heart that yearns to help others. And you also seem to forget many times that you are a Princess, one whom is of the lineage of the bold and noble Proudmoore line of the sea faring nation of Kul Tiras. Your words hold sway with people far beyond your own country, and there are many whom would heed you, even those whom hide behind false hatreds. They will see the truth you tell soon enough. The portents are already visible, and the fate of this place draws near" the Prophet uttered, now looking straight into the eyes of Jaina.

She suddenly felt a great pressure, forcing her to her knees, as she gazed into the eyes of the old man. It was nothing but his presence, his great power, that forced her, an apprentice of Antodias, to the ground. Gasping for air, she felt that the doubt that had previously gnawed at her vanish. Indeed, this man was powerful beyond compare; something more than any mere mortal could ever become. His tone was sweet and truthful, his eyes soft and sincere, yet holding a tone of desperation; some kind of mad need to rescue these people.

"You tell the truth…" she whispered, looking back up to see his dark figure standing like a statue.

"I am bound by my guilt and previous sins, to save this world. Now that one has flocked to my calling, I am able to leave. Seek me out in Kalimdor…" he suddenly broke off, the emerald light enveloping him before he flew off in his crow form again.

Jaina looked down at the bloodied cobblestones, and then up at the orange clouds. In her core, she knew he told the truth. The burning shadow that desired above all else to rid this world of its life, was somehow connected with the Scourge, and neared with every day. The inescapable future neared.

Jaina immediately set off, determined to save what she could.

Canton's Ford, Eastern Lordaeron, end of summer, 614

One month after the destruction of Stratholme

"Lord General Volsung, pull your forces past back from the Redsap Forest, and bring forth the fresh corps to plug the holes in your lines. After that make sure that Jorad Mace's contingent of paladins supports the 10th Army's retreat to Corin's Crossing" Uther commanded, rubbing his forehead, exhausted. In this past month alone his much of his hair had turned from its former rustic red to an old man's gray.

"High General, what if the Scourge moves into the south and begin to terrorize the villages along the Borderlands?" an officer called out.

"Colonel Redpath is commanding the militia in Darrowshire, and will take over the scouting duties of our overstretched forces while Lord General Nathaniel Blackspire will instate martial order in Tyr's Hand where mass riots have broken out. It is our luck, that across the Thandol Span, King Magni Bronzebeard has promised us several divisions of dwarven warriors to help in the war effort" one of the General's in the conference said.

"Dwarves?" a sudden cry of disgust bellowed in the dank tent. "Those filthy tunnel dwellers may stay in their holes as long as they wish, for I and many others have no use for such an…incompetent and secretive society to join us in our own glorious fights. I hear even rumors of their own cults, worshipping false gods they call Titans, allowing all the teachings of the Holy Light that _we humans _labored so hard to uncover. Can we trust heretics?" A slight murmur went around. Still to this day the interracial prejudices continued; the different peoples of Azeroth had never truly come into complete trust with one another, not even between the increasingly close friendship between Men and the earthen Dwarves.

"Commander Garithos, I behest you to watch your tongue around our allies" a superior officer whispered quite audibly. Uther smiled, knowing the thick headed Garithos always to be the first to protest about the integration of separate countries armies, but also that of separate species.

"Captain Commander Garithos, Long have those two races, Men and Dwarves that is, fought and died together, looking out for each others interests. We are a mutual force in a world beset by conflict and beleaguered by evils" Uther replied curtly, dismissing the man's obvious aura of hatred toward anything non-human. If Garithos had been Terenas, the orcs would long have since been nigh destroyed instead of placed in the internment camps, of which late many clans had escaped under the leadership of their new supposed Warchief whom had disappeared across the ocean, after subjugating much of Stromgarde's Royal Navy. Out of respect to Uther, Garithos quieted, still fuming at the prospect of having to serve with dwarves yet again.

Taking a bite of the hard, dry bread that had been placed on a crude plate and washing it down with Gilnean cider, Uther studied the logistics reports and the grand map that stretched one meter in each direction over a table, taking into mind each of the blue squares that represented elements of the Alliance forces scattered about eastern Lordaeron.

"High Summoner Nagal has brought a division of Dalaran footmen as well as several Kirin Tor mages to the southern fronts, so they should hold while we reorganize our battle lines" Uther replied, swallowing the brick-like bread. Above, the sky reeled painfully blue, the terrible last throes of summer storms finally over.

The geography of east Lordaeron lay as such: In the central south the Alterac Mountains cut off any passage into southern Lordaeron and isolated the city state of Dalaran, its peaks tall and daunting. Only a single, brief pass through the mountains lead into Stromgarde, the nation of warriors, which was at the moment neutral and uncommitted to the Alliance. Further after the break in the mountains, the Tyrrin Peaks rose out of the ground, bisecting the continent further until the edge of the land, bordering on the Dark Seas. Above the Tyrrin Peaks many of Lordaeron's oldest towns and great centers of population lived amongst the dark forests and wilderness.

The undead had coalesced into certain pinpricks across the continent, their numbers increasing exponentially, taking entire towns and moving on. Already several armies had been taken by surprise and shattered, and the retaliatory strikes by more organized forces did little to halt the undead advances, at best clearing out several towns that were already far gone.

"Our basic overall strategy remains the same: the destruction of the Scourge bases and elimination of necromantic centers, as well as the further quarantine of any territories past the Alemheim Bridge.

"What we know of the undead is that they are controlled by the necromancers and dark wizards of the Cult of the Damned, as well as a coven of secretive demons that have infiltrated this world. These demons are led by Mal'ganis, a vampiric dreadlord. Their goal is nothing short of the utter elimination of our culture and all life. These things are an evil which we have not glimpsed since the rampaging orcs ripped through the lands of man fifteen years ago. It is our duty to once again take up the sword and defend this land, and all lands, from the Scourge that would seek to set them alight in a confligeration of death and blood. Seeing as the supply lines are stable for now, I entrust you all to fulfill your duties of leaders of the Alliance. You are dismissed, Lords" Uther finalized. His thoughts quickly drifted to the battle of words he and Arthas had uttered during their hunt for Mal'ganis near Stratholme.

As various the lords filed out of the room Uther could just barely ascertain Garithos muttering under his breath, "_At least its not elves"._ All the generals had exited the room except for Darrus Volsung, the respectful Lord General of the 6th Army.

"Is there something on your mind Darrus?" the elder asked.

"Sire…permission to speak freely?" Volsung inquired.

"Granted"

"With all due respect, you ought to get more sleep" Uther stared at Volsung for a moment, chuckling, then noticing he was speaking with all seriousness.

"Indeed you have been acting out the act of High General flawlessly sire, but I know it is a stressful job, juggling the politics and military aspects of the situation, as well as adhering to the commandments of the Light and suffering the loss of the beloved Prince Arthas" Volsung stated.

"He's not dead" Uther said flatly. "He's out there somewhere, probably in Northrend, pursuing whatever mad crusade Mal'ganis has tricked him into"

"Sire, if indeed Northrend is where the Plague and the Scourge originated from, there is very little chance of survival for too long in that frozen hell"

"I've taught him all I could about the Light, and he has learned the arts of war beyond many a good man that was just in that conference; it is said that he could perhaps even best the elvish Duke of Blades in a duel, if they could ever meet" Uther trailed off, losing track of the conversation "However, he has abused the right and privileges he has been given. If not for this damn war, I would be out there chasing him down myself. I would punish him, _myself_" he scowled.

"Lord Lightbringer, he left on his own will. No doubt the men have great confidence in him, but if he has truly begun descent into madness, then even if he does return from Northrend, there is no knowing what he will do next. I am just warning you sir, be wary of him. Even if you tracked him down, he would not obey you. I was talking earlier with one of the elvish priests from Quel'thalas that had followed him, Cyrus Faim'las was his name I believe, and he was telling me of the strange aura that had surrounded Arthas during their encounters with the undead"

"It matters not. I, with the blessing of King Terenas himself, have sent many envoys and hired mercenaries to pursue Arthas to the bounds of our maps and inform him to return immediately. I do not think he is so far gone as to disobey an order from his father" Uther's fist clenched, anger at the betrayal like a crushing pain on his heart.

"Very well sire, I bid you farewell" Volsung sighed.

"And you good sir. Do remember to inform me of your position, for the undead multiply daily and we have already lost many good soldiers. I cannot spare any more of my elite in foolish assaults and retaliations" Uther bid.

"I am honored to be counted amongst those few" Volsung said before he lifted the muddy flaps of the tent and stepping out.

Indeed, Arthas had gone along with his deteriorating conscious, burning Stratholme to the ground. Of the twenty five thousand whom had previously lived in the Northern Haven, as it had been called during the Second War, less than three thousand lived.

After informing King Terenas and the High Council and Committee of the Alliance of Arthas's mad expedition and thieving of the fleet under falsified orders, as well as his abuse of his hereditary powers, Uther had been granted the authority to warrant an arrest for Arthas. However, the ability came far too late; Arthas had long ago left the shores of Lordaeron with as many men as those whom had lived in Stratholme, taking with him the entire 1st Army, as well as crucial elements of the 2nd.

The undead would not stay contained for long, their forces already beginning to pour out of the northern lands. The Plague, another ominous sign of the undead advance, had also struck deep into the east, causing mass deaths, panic, and anarchy. Every man was needed at the front, and already the High Council had begun to instate the draft amongst the people, many of whom would not be able to respond; for those not dead yet past the battle lines in central Lordaeron, were most likely fleeing with massive refugee columns stretching for miles, or arming themselves in local militias.

Suddenly, someone lifted the tent flaps. A runner, fresh from the front, laid piece of parchment on Uther's desk. Upon its top, was labeled, _The Newest Report of Undead Activity in the Eastern Provinces_, and below the heading was in small print, _As accurate as possible: By the time received, the positions of battle shall most likely have changed. _After all, it did take many long weeks to travel the width and breadth of the country.

Daggercap Bay, Northrend

"The ships can go no further sire. The ice is too thick, and our hulls not strong enough to brave these treacherous bays" a voice called to Arthas.

"Very well, Commandant Benedict" Arthas replied, finding a high spot to overlook the landing area. A soul piercing wind kicked up, blowing dust and snow in their faces. The Commandant had come ashore to personally inform Arthas, whom appreciated the honorific gesture. As the Commandant of the 7th Fleet whom had agreed to ferry Arthas's troops to the shores of Northrend moved away, returning to the boats, a captain came up to Arthas.

"This truly is a Light forsaken place, isn't it milord? You can barely even see the sun! This howling wind cuts to the bone, and you're not even shaking. Milord, are you alright?"

"Captain, are all my forces accounted for?"

"Ahem. Nearly, there are only a few ships –"

"Good, lets move inland and set up a base of operations. I want scouts on the bluffs ahead," he said pointing to the looming cliffs in the distance.

Arthas walked before the disembarking army as they assembled under the gray skies, their faces flushed with cold, the armor caked in mud and difficult to flex in the frigid atmosphere.

When the sentries had reached the top of the bluffs they planted signal flags, both green, the sign to move on. Sending regimens in one by one, the army slowly advanced through at first a labyrinth of canyons riddled with dark tunnels, and then a petrified forest, long since frozen in the forgotten wasteland of Northrend.

Arthas remembered his geography lessons, taught by a royal teacher whose face had long since faded from memory, his lesson reverberating in the Prince's mind: "_In this land, many sought to find a haven from the petty wars of man and elf upon Lordaeron. Coming to this frozen place, they called it Northrend, its icy shores destroying many of their ships. In the cold, they found however an untamed, forgotten land, ancient beyond belief, full of sorrow…and death. Northrend is a place where no man should dare to tread for long, as the land itself shall swallow him whole. Not long did those colonists survive, and even as the years passed and people followed in their path, no matter what time and place they were from, they all shared the same destiny: a bleak, forgotten death in this cold, dark continent". _

Indeed Arthas could feel the mood of the army. The men were afraid: afraid of this vast, uninhabitable land, hostile even to the eye. In the distance, beyond the edges of the petrified forest, lay a vast field of icy spires, like massive stalagmites piercing the sky.

"Stand steady, and bring the legions through, one by one. If Mal'ganis spoke truth, and the undead come from this land, then we shall eliminate them here, once and for all" Arthas spoke to the commanders at his side as they rode on shivering mares beside a company of men-at-arms.

As the day slipped into night, the temperatures plummeted even further. The sun's rays slipped beyond the horizon as the White Lady (Azeroth's first and greater moon) reached it's zenith and the azure-green Blue Child began its own rise in the inky sky, the clouds now clear. The soldiers clad themselves in furs, donning the warm gear Arthas had ordered brought on the ships.

Tents dotted the landscape as the army camped for a night in an empty plain, the only signs of difference in the vast white land the great fissures that suddenly dropped into nothingness. In the darkness of the night however, something stirred.

Arthas was awake, at what kind of ungodly hour this was, marking positions on an crumpled piece of parchment, a small candle in a lantern hanging from the roof of the tent the only thing lighting his work. Thus far into Northrend there had been no enemy attacks, only scattered bands of ice trolls found on the edges of the army's formation, and those which got in the way were dealt with swiftly.

"_We have no clue what we are walking into…the only knowledge we have of this land are old, inaccurate records from the times of the first exploration of the Daggercap Bay area" _Arthas whispered to himself, trying to find a clear route, comparing the maps that his scouts had etched to the far greater one that supposedly illustrated the great bay of Daggercap, where his fleet had hoisted itself and the army disembarked.

Somewhere in this vast, snowy wasteland was Mal'ganis, and with him, the Scourge. His thoughts fluttered back to home: how was the war going there? How far had the Plague infected? In the end it mattered not, so long as justice was extracted for the horror done to Lordaeron. Justice, and vengeance.

As Arthas sat in silent reflection, outside the tents of the vast army, a dark force began to surround them.

Arthas glanced at the lantern hanging by a piece of leather to the wooden supports of the tent. Where a few minutes ago it had been still, now it was beginning to sway ever so slightly. Adrenaline poured into Arthas's body as he felt the ground begin to tremble. Outside, a distant scream was heard from a sentry. Arthas immediately rushed out of his tent, clad in naught but the furs he wore under his armor and his Arathi highland boots, a gift from the lords of Stromgarde from his earlier years.

Sticking his head out into the cold air, his breath formed a blue mist under the light of the moons that seemed ethereal, floating off into the distance. He could see that other men had begun to wake, lights erupting from the tents.

Suddenly, the sound of a galloping horse was heard through the night: one of the sentries.

"The undead! The undead are attacking!" he screamed over and over, riding through the camp at random.

Completely aroused, Arthas reached for his hammer and threw on his chest plate and gauntlets. "To arms! To arms, the undead are attacking!" the cry echoed through the camp.

All around, in the darkness, Arthas saw the black wave of undead moving toward their camp. A battle: finally, the enemy had ceased their hiding. Yet before Arthas could even form the soldiers, the undead rushed into the camp. The screams of men filled the night sky as battle took place.

Wretched skeletons, cannibalistic ghouls, and the alien nerubian spiders, as well as the massive flesh golems called abominations poured into the camp in a surprise attack. Swinging his mighty hammer, Arthas cut down a ghoul as it reared its head from the carnage it had inflicted upon a man who still lay in his cot. All the vast varieties of undead could be seen, as well as strange, massive stone obelisks that were towed into battle by horsemen pale as the moon itself, their horse's eyes aflame with demonic fire.

"Ashela neva dar!" Arthas called out, unleashed one of the Seals of power, reaching for his Tome of the Light which hung by a chain around his neck. A crimson energy surrounded him as he threw himself at the enemy.

In the darkness his light was as a beacon to both the living and dead, and as soldiers, hastily dressed gathered around him, so too did the forces of the damned. An elven mage however, gathered the strength in this magic deprived desert somehow, and let loose a torrent of fiery sorcery, melting the flesh and charring the bones of the great beasts that beset them.

As the battle continued however, it was clear that there were no forces to back the undead that had ridden into their camp, and almost as soon as the battle had begun, it ended.

"The undead assail us as if we were children! There is no way we shall loose to such weak creatures!" a man cried out, his jubilant voice gathering cheers from those around him. In rage, Arthas rushed over to the man, grabbing him by his shirt collar and shoving his face close to his.

Hot breath flowing over the man, Arthas hissed "Weak creatures?! Is that what you call these things that nigh destroyed our homeland in a matter of months? Do not underestimate our enemy, for he is as cunning as any human foe!"

Arthas let the man go; now shouting to a crowd that had gathered around the two. "This was but a raiding party, a mere trifling force, to prod us and see how our defense was! The armies I have seen, and many of you as well, have been far vaster, and FAR greater than what assailed us tonight, yet look around you! Hear the screams of your wounded and dying comrades! We were taken by utter surprise, and many hundreds have died here alone, and you call it victory.

With every man dead here, the undead shall take him and make him their own. When we do encounter the main force of the enemy, let it be known…let it be known that no quarter will be shown to traitors in this place! We stand or die together in this hell! As you took the vow to serve me, so shall you fight in this place, as long as I will it, be that the next week, the next month, or all eternity…" The men stood aghast at their Prince as he fumed. Before the night was over, all alive in the camp were tending to the wounded or preparing for battle.

As the sun rose, it cast a glorious shock orange across the wispy clouds that had sprung up overnight, signaling a new beginning. The army packed its gear, and prepared to move again, a long supply line back to the makeshift harbor in the Bay guarded by heavy cavalry which constantly patrolled the snowy paths that they had created.

"All be damned…" Arthas spat as he witnessed another carriage break down in the muddy slush. To the sides loomed the walls of a great canyon, and in these two days by noon on the second, the army had traversed nearly 22 leagues across the treacherous landscape, suffering vicious surprise attacks upon not only their flanks but indeed the fore.

The harsh march was one that the soldiers would remember for the rest of their lives: the cold hell, the icy water in their boots freezing their digits, the howling wind giving the kiss of frostbite on the cheeks and noses of many in such a short amount of time. The arctic weather was persistent, as if the land itself wished to drive the foreign invaders out, yet Arthas pushed on.

"This is a good spot to set up a preliminary base of operations" Arthas said to his force commanders, concluding the talks of strategy that he engaged in. In a small ravine between two large mountains was a canyon where there was much raw material needed to make and repair armor in the harsh wintry land, as well as construct more adequate defenses against both the undead and the wind.

As Arthas walked with the lead column through an small copse of hardy tree-ish plants, a sudden feeling of watching came upon him.

"Sire…I believe we're not alone" the Captain whom had traveled with him so far told him. Arthas made a point not to learn the man's name, having lost far too many of his favorites in the last few months of the war.

"Indeed, Captain. Ready the men-"before he could finish, a sudden thunder filled the air. The captain jumped on Arthas, throwing him to the ground before he could realize what was going on.

Behind him he saw that the men in the column too had taken cover in a small ditch, and that the snow was peppered with holes. Suddenly, he heard distinctive dwarven voices.

"Khayzt vaz taken! Khayzt kor tui!" a cry arose. Arthas immediately recognized it, the Bronzebeard dialect of dwarvish.

"What in the name of the Light…?" he muttered to himself.

"Who be there! State ya're names and purpose in this here land! Answer humans, we saw you ne're the snow on our beards be gone!" the voice called again.

"Calm down!" the Captain yelled out "Tis the Army of the Alliance! Hold your fire!"

"Bloody hell!" the voice called back "You're not undead! You're all alive!"

Arthas slowly got up, noticing in the darkness of the bushes the shining barrels of dwarven blunderbuss rifles. From the darkness of the underbrush came a single dwarf, who whistled for his soldiers to appear.

Peering at the slight incline that the dwarves came from, Arthas recognized in the glare of the light a single figure: donned in armor adorned with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires, his helm scratched and chipped, a stout dwarf earthen with a flowing bronze beard.

Lordegarde, Castle Menethil

It would soon begin. The first meeting of the High Council of the Alliance of Lordaeron since early summer would convene, and along with it, Terenas Menethil had invited the Kings of Gilneas and Stromgarde, both whom had no ambassadors or legislators upon the Committee of Common Defense (better known as the Supreme Command of the Alliance).

Archmage Antodias looked down from his elevated conference chamber, which was about ten feet above the ground in the domed throne room of Lordaeron, gruff as always. Below on his throne, he spied the aging figure of Terenas, whom sat cross armed, eye furrowed, as if lost in infinite thought. In the other chambers, he spotted the King of Kul Tiras, Daelin Proudmoore, the Regent Lord of Alterac, Hroth Gaias, an envoy from distant Stormwind, the esteemed Highlord Bolvar Fordragon, as well as an ambassador from Stromgarde, Senator Steelhill of the Ironforge Chamber of Lords, and surprisingly enough, the King of Gilneas, Genn Graymane, whom sat in his chamber, seemingly utterly disgusted with his surroundings. The High Elves spot in the throne room however were empty, their people opting to remain in their isolation rather than partake in the dabbling of politics.

Irritated, Antodias finally called out "Shall we begin this meeting or not?"

"You always seem crotchety at the most important of times, no, Archmage?" Proudmoore called out sarcastically, obviously not meaning his words.

"No matter how much people are attracted to your charisma, Proudmoore, I shall never understand why…" Greymane uttered, breaking his silence from the encircling darkness of his chamber.

"My fellow Kings, grand ambassadors," Terenas said, at last standing from his throne. Antodias studied the man. He had been thinned greatly by the events of the past few months, his face growing older and heavier, knowing the blood of many thousands was on his hands, as well as his own son's disappearance into the icy mists of Northrend.

"The time has come again upon us, and the tides of darkness echo upon the world" Terenas continued, bringing order to the room as rays of sunlight poured in through the open dome. "From the north, a dreaded Plague has spread across the lands of noble Lordaeron and loyal Alterac, killing many as it passed. However the true horror of this Plague was only uncovered after it struck, as great armies of necromantically risen undead appeared behind it"

"To the point, Terenas…" Greymane spat impatiently, as if wanting to say something himself.

Ever the tactful and patient, Terenas continued as if nothing had happened, yet cutting off the fat from his speech "War is upon my lands. Good Lords of distant lands, the armies of the current Alliance can hold back this flood only for so long, as every man that falls joins the ranks of our enemy, the Scourge. These past months have been dire, and indeed we underestimated the strength of our enemy for far too long. The great wizards the Kirin Tor have long labored to understand the Plague and undead, and good Archmage Antodias of the Violet Citadel has prepared a report to you all on the information we have thus far collected"

The audience had finally settled down, the fidgeting of the great leaders of Azeroth had faded as their eyes floated to Antodias expectantly. Feeling his age, much like that of Terenas himself, Antodias smiled to himself: when was the last time such a meeting was called? Surely…it would be one of the last he would live to see. He had hoped that by the time of his passing, his apprentice Jaina Proudmoore, daughter of the King standing parallel from him, would be strong enough to take his place, a revolutionary thought for a woman to become such a leader in a world where men ruled.

"Kings, Lords, and ambassadors" he began, voice croaking with age "As you all know, since late summer of the standard Arathi calendar, there have been increasing sightings and reports of the Plague sweeping though the north. Leaving in its wake a path of destruction, this strange, malignant disease passed through the northern lands and into the more densely populated east.

From the many researchers, alchemists, wizards and more that have safely studied the Plague, it can only be said that this disease is artificial: a tool crafted to destroy the world as we know it, by whom or what we know not"

A gasp arose from the audience. A sudden gust of wind picked up, burning out several torches on the walls.

"From the remains of the Plague arose a vast undead army, created necromantically by death cults which have spread over the years throughout our lands, gaining support from disheartened and disenfranchised peasants and citizens. This went nearly unopposed until it began to threaten entire provinces, by which time to Plague began to focus most of our attention. The Kirin Tor advised that the northern towns infected be placed under quarantine," he continued, looking straight at Terenas's face, whose eyes held infinite sadness, gazing back at the other wizened man as if in eternal apology. Indeed, it had been he and the others in this chamber that had rejected that idea, that best hope of salvation against the spread of the disease.

"The Plague was created magically, and altered artificially, as I have said before. It was carried through the lands via caravans of grain and through several gigantic cauldron-like dispensers scattered in the outlying forests and badlands. As our forces rallied, the undead arose from the dead, and now combat us across the plains of eastern Lordaeron. The Kirin Tor works ceaselessly to find a cure to the Plague, as well as the Silver Hand, however our studies have not yielded as of yet any efficient results.

"A war is already upon us, yet inevitably it shall swallow all of us. The blood of Lordaeron is spilled each day as we defend ourselves as well as all of your countries, making sure the undead advance no further south. I plead to you, as is, the armies of our Alliance, great as they are, shall not stand forever. The undead roam our countryside, our crops are crushed, our people in flight. I have signed orders of forced conscription, refusal under penalty of death, yet the manpower of Lordaeron is not enough. Lordaeron, the Alliance, nay, all of Azeroth require your lands and people to fight with us, to bleed with us, to defend that which we hold holy and reverent" Terenas suddenly said, cutting through Antodias' briefing.

Antodias stared at Terenas. Not since the siege of Lordegarde had he ever seen the King so agitated, so…unraveled. It was not only his lands, but his son as well. Time and war were taking a heavy toll on Terenas Menethil II.

"By count of support, I shall now receive your votes of confidence or no confidence for full support of resources, whether it be gold or soldiers, to this war effort" the exasperated King finished.

"Well then, to combat the undead we must throw our forces behind the Alliance wholly! King Terenas, the resources of my nation are behind you, as always" Proudmoore boomed, chest thrust outward, the graying chestnut hair under his tricorn admiral's hat bouncing in its locks, grinning viciously.

"Sovereign King of Lordaeron, Alterac, as is customary, shall continue its full support of the Alliance. Indeed we too shall begin our own conscription, as is advised by your Royal adjuncts" the Regent Lord Hroth Gaias said in a more than subdued tone, as if he had any choice. Long had his lands been occupied by the armed forces of Lordaeron and Stromgarde, bereft of free will after its traitorous turn in the Second War.

"The Kirin Tor, as in the past years, shall continue to support the Alliance of Lordaeron" Antodias said quickly, not one for long winded comments.

"I am sorry my Lords, but from what I have heard, and what my King instructed, I have no power to give this council a vote of confidence at this moment. However, I shall return to my lord Thoras Trollbane with the information provided here about the situation in the northlands. I am sure that he can make a more complete decision than I" the ambassador from Stromgarde said, his tone neutral. Terenas nodded silently, though wincing as if he had just been punched in the gut.

"The Nation of Azeroth has had a long history, yet in all our years no times were ever darker than the wars that raged across our continents dislodging the entire people of my land. However it was in our distant neighbors that we found stalwart allies, whom helped us retake our ancestral homes. The Kingdom of Stormwind shall, and forever shall, support the Alliance!" Highlord Bolvar Fordragon exclaimed, holding his fist in the air.

"Ironforge approves of whatever necessary measures must be taken to contain the Plague and combat the Scourge" Senator Steelhill announced as the turn of speaker passed to him.

Moments passed as leaders awaited the tiny chance that the High Elves might show up in their chamber, yet as time passed, nothing was to be seen or heard of. The turn passed to Gilneas.

"And so it comes to this again…yet this time, I see no profit for Gilneas, I see no new lands, no rewards, nothing Terenas! Only death…what did we receive when the orcs were pushed from your lands!? Taxes! Taxes to keep the ones we had fought ALIVE IN CAMPS!" Greymane exploded, face red as he leaned over the stone railing of his chamber.

"These undead pose no threat to my people at this given moment, and there is no reason to believe they shall in a year, or a decade. However…to assure the safety of _my _nation, I shall most hastily construct a wall blocking us off from any possible infection of your supposed Plague"

"Come now, good Genn Greymane, have we not solved our quarrels over tables of diplomacy and bartering before?" Proudmoore said, trying to select Greymane's support. However, Greymane proved more stubborn than ever before.

"Silence! I will not hear a word from you Proudmoore! Long has your own country been the bane of mine, stealing our islands, raping our lands in wars long ago. I shall not take it! I shall not stand for it!" he turned his head which had been circulating around the room, spittle dropping as he raved.

"Damn the orcs, damn the Alliance, and damn you! The last thing Gilneas needs is sponges from other nations drawing from our resources, Dalaran wizards meddling with our affairs, and someone else's enemies killing our soldiers! Gilneas is its own nation and it always will be. This is the last time I'll ever talk to you, Terenas, so I hope you were listening!"

"Guards!" Terenas called, now red faced of his own, the man's seemingly eternal patience running thin "Please eject this man from the courts immediately!"

"Indeed, insulting the honor of all other peoples! You are all fools! Lead by the nose like dogs! Farewell Alliance, farewell corruptors and thieves!" Greymane echoed as several armed guards escorted him out of his chambers.

_The utter gall of that man… _Antodias thought violently.

"My apologies, Lords. You've all known of the apparent…discrepencies between King Greymane and myself for these many years and I ask you to forgive me for the outburst. Greymane, I forsee, shall not be returning to our precense" Terenas said, collapsing into his throne.

As the meeting continued, the ambassador of Stromgarde left near dusk to inform his King of the happenings, and the remaining high lords of the Alliance began to draft their plans of battle. As the Alliance began to strengthen its military might, so too did the battles spread across the land.

Arthas' Northrend Expedition 

In early fall, Arthas led the combined elements of the 1st and 2nd armies into Northrend via the Northern Alliance Fleet which he commandeered under the powers of his future crown.

The army's breakdown follows as is,

19,383 Infantry broken down into Corps of approx. 5,000, and below that Divisions, each positioned within the marching column from more experienced along the fore and flanks to the least experienced within the middle, and rearguard.

3,328 Light cavalry scattered around the flanks and positioned mainly around the supply lines, the light cavalry's job is reconaissance and protection of vulnerable areas around the army.

1,794 Heavy Cavalry and Knights in the vanguard and far flanks, positioned for lightning, heavy thrusts, as well as protection of the flanks.

3,677 Infantry Reserve, mostly positioned along the supply lines. Also divided equally through the Divisions serving as reserve used to plug in holes in the lines.

(Author's Note: Another chapter delayed, tisk tisk, my bad, sorry guys. Micro-economics is not a fun class and I do not recommend it, but enough of my ranting. My thanks go out to all my reviewers, and especially to Andy the High Elf and High Elf Swordsman, whom have pointed out several things that I shall work on and include in the story. If all goes as promisingly as I hope, then the next chapter which is already being worked on should not take too long to publish. Once again thank you, and see you next time!)


	11. Chapter 10: Reaping the Whirlwind

**Chapter 10: Sowing the Whirlwind**

Strom, Stromgarde

"Hearken to me, people of Stromgarde!" a female voice shouted out. A crowd had gathered around her as she had been brought into the city under the personal guard of her most loyal Kul Tiras Marines.

"Its Princess Jaina!" she would hear as she passed through the streets in her carriage and now, as she stood atop the same carriage. The people of the city were astounded, like most of the other places she had visited along her journey. She prepared to give her speech, watching the great crowd swell below her. Indeed, the driver of the carriage had known his way around the city, like she had asked for. They had stopped in the very largest town forum at the perfect time. It seemed like everybody was out in the market at this time.

The stout buildings of Strom passed by as the carriage had made its way. Red flags and symbols of the Fist of Strom decorated the streets and windows, the people of this nation always ferverently patriotic. In fact, Stromgarde had inherited the remains and legacy of the first and greatest human country, Arathor, the empire that had been forged in the blood of the trolls long ago in nearly forgotten wars.

"Ms. Jaina!" a small girl cried out as she unveiled her hood, letting her long blonde hair flow forth, having to squint from the sudden brightness of the highlands sun.

"People of Stromgarde! Farmers, soldiers, wives, and even children!" she called out "I have served as an ambassador to this land before, as well as our northern neighbors of Lordaeron. You know me to be truthful, to be a faithful servant of the righteous orders.

You know of the terrible Plague that spreads from the northlands, and know that I myself have studied this Plague and the horrors of the undead that follow it. As many before me have sensed, this horrific turn of events is constructed by an outside force, and we are now trapped in a great web of plans laid far before our own lives existed!" she shouted out, waving her hands to excite the crowd.

"I have seen, through the paths of magic, an irreversible future! One, in which this world is bathed in the blood of all! It is something we cannot avoid, nor try to stop. I…I know what it is like to lose loved ones. My brother, whom died in the Second War when dragons descended upon his fleet and sunk it beneath the waves, is a testimate to that, as well as many others whom have lived in our troubled generations"

"Oy', woman, wha're you doin' in our country? Tryin' to incite apocalyptic words and shake our faith in the Light? Besides, whats happenin' up north is ne're our business!" a heckler called out from the crowd.

Jeers arose from the crowd, meeting the man's words. A foreign nation with foreign ideals was indeed a tough test to master. Even her accent was different, possessing none of the strange tones and expressions of Stromgarde.

"I have the permission of your King to speak!" she called out in an utter lie. Thoras Trollbane knew not that she spoke in her streets, and she intended to keep it that way. She would speak her word, and leave immediately.

The city guards seemed helpless in the face of such a large crowd. Indeed, thousands had gathered to hear her speak.

"I know what I say is dark! But there is hope! There is chance for salvation, for survival! Hear me!" she continued, unabated. She knew that the people were scared.

Scared of what was happening in Lordaeron.

Scared that it would spill over into their borders.

Scared that indeed the end of the world had come.

The portents were very serious in the north. Those of the older generations were tired of wars, fighting two very vicious ones against the orcs. Nobody wanted another war. Even the martial masters of the battle oriented nation of Stromgarde had seemed to shy away from doing battle with the undead in the north, intent on their own internal affairs concerning the orcs and trolls. The crowd murmured, the few that had seemed ready to turn back and go back to the market glancing at her again.

"I have sent word to the various nations across Azeroth, through my own personal missives, very silent, very secret. Until now I refused to speak to crowds in fear of reprisals, threats and utter rejection of what I have to say. Already people have heard what I have to say, and flock to my banner"

"An' what kinda' banner is that?" someone else shouted out.

"The banner of a united people!" she replied, "Standing resolute in the face of the darkness that will soon impede on this land, and all the continent of Lordaeorn. I intend to leave the shores of Lordaeron with the combined fleets of those whom have volunteered to come with me and seek survival in the wilderness of the forgotten land…Kalimdor! To achieve what we need in this time, a fighting chance!"

A sudden silence flew over the crowd. Kalimdor…a word that many knew, but few actually knew about. Kalimdor had been spoken of in ancient elven texts, retrieved and placed in the Kirin Tor libraries. These people had heard of it before, but didn't know what it was. She remembered what the Prophet had told her, and instructed her to tell others.

"What I'm about to tell you…is all true" Jaina said, looking skywards.

Northrend, Eversharp Expanse

"Muradin…Muradin Bronzebeard, is that you?" Arthas said in an unbelieving voice as he eyed the dirty dwarf clad in his ancestral armor.

"Damn, boy…I never imagined you'd be the one to come to our rescue" the stocky dwarf said with a tone of relief, stroking the icicles off his blonde beard.

"Rescue you…I didn't even know you were here Muradin" Arthas replied, confused.

Muradin was a part of the Dwarven royal family, the Bronzebeard's, whom was himself among the greatest of his clansmen in the arts of exploration and axe skill. Long ago he had even taught Arthas a trick or two, when he served as ambassador to Lordaeron in the stead of his brother, King Magni Bronzebeard of Ironforge.

"Oh…hah, just the same lad" Muradin said rather confused himself, offering a fresh smile in the alien environment. "I was out here on one o' me expeditions, ya' know, the one's me brother and Ironforge pay big for. As much as we know 'bout the earth, the greater our knowlage of treasures forgotten eh'?" he then explained.

"Muradin…you're soldiers are clad for war, and just how long have you been out here?" Arthas asked, still nearly unbelieving of the entire affair.

"Whoo…that's calls for quite an answer boyo', and I don't think neither you nor me have time for long answers. Though, I'll tell ya, as we explored thought this strange land, we were attacked many times by the undead creatures"

Arthas listened intently as Muradin's long winded story explained just how he ended up in such a remote place. In response, Arthas began his own tale, telling of the destruction that Lordaeron had faced at the hands of the Scourge, and the evil dreadlord Mal'ganis whom had commanded it in full detail.

"Mal'ganis…indeed, I know I'd of heard that name somewhere before" Muradin suddenly brightened, the connection made. "In fact, as we mapped Northrend on the long expedition, we noticed a massive concentration of them undead boys near the old citadel of Drak'tharon Keep, which used ta' belong ta' them ice trolls that make their abode he're in this frigid place. If ya're looking for Mal'ganis, he's most likely to be there than anywhere else on the whole blasted continent" the dwarf said, chugging more of the ale the army had brought from the fleet's stores as the two conversed around a fire.

Around them Muradin's dwarves and the men from Arthas's expedition shuffled about in the cold, setting up camp for the night. Materials for a main base were being brought up from the fleet, though the path they had to take was far from a short one. A great, dark forest kept the men from the quickest routes the ships, forcing them to go through the dangerous canyon passes they had come through in the past week.

"Indeed he would be" Arthas said, sipping on heated water. "I hate the snow" he then said suddenly.

"Oh? I like it. Reminds me o' Dun Morogh" Muradin said, going about breathing on his hands to keep them warm. "Just the same, many of me lads were separated and scattered across this here strip of land when we came under attack from the undead. I'm positive if we find any alive, they'll help us roast some undead"

"The more the better" Arthas said, watching his breath evaporate into the dry, cold air.

That night the undead attacks came again, but through the strength and will of the army the power of the expedition pulled through, and again the unholy idols were beaten down. For the next week days, the army began its advance across the land of Northrend, heading toward Drak'tharon Keep, now facing an ever increasing tide of enemies.

On the ninth day since the landing, ahead loomed great towers; foreboding and menacing, the buildings of the Scourge, their factories, enrichment facilities, and spawning glens. The great keep of Drak'tharon was not far, and Arthas spotted it in the distance now. Against the backdrop of great blue mountains, a massive structure stood. Intertwining with the great bestial mountains around it, the thing soared into the sky; an ancient keep used by the ice trolls during their height as an empire here in the north.

Arthas overlooked the vast plains leading up to the black keep, his army shining as it advanced across. Before Arthas lay upon the pure snow the corrupted undead beings of the Scourge, their own structures dotting the landscape, as well as their massive force pouring from Drak'tharon like a diseased creature.

"Muradin," Arthas spoke, as the flag bearer of an infantry battalion passed with his unit "Just what were you looking for out here?"

Muradin hesitated.

"Muradin…" Arthas repeated the dwarfs name, insistent on an answer.

"Well, legend has it that there's an ancient waygate to the east of Drak'tharon Keep that leads to a hidden vault. Inside the vault is an artifact of awesome power, an ancient runeblade called _Frostmourne. _I had hoped to make my way to that place and reclaim that irreplaceable treasure as a shining glory to be placed in the Hall of Explorers in Ironforge.

"You…came here for a single blade?!" Arthas spat incredulously.

"All the men that came with me were volunteers, willing to give their lives for the cause of these voyages. Aye sonny. But you don't understand. Most o' ya humans never did understand. Ya're too young of a race to be obsessed with the past like us. As we got closer to the waygate more and more undead came from Drak'tharon like some kind of sentries or somethin'" Muradin concluded.

"In any case, Mal'ganis should be there" Arthas said, pointing to the terrifyingly huge structure in the distance.

"Aye laddie. But this is a cursed land, and I don't know if you can take em' all on; the land, undead, and your own dark thoughts that is" Muradin counseled.

"Shut up Muradin…you don't know what it was like in Lordaeron" Arthas snapped, taking his leave for the day. As night passed, pickets were set up around the army's base and the force attempted to sleep, unable to knowing that battle awaited them the next day.

That night, amidst the howling wind, Arthas slept, one of the few in the army able to. He dreamed…

_A cave of blue ice…_

_A great tower, held from its destiny by chains forged beyond the world…_

_And in its heart, a sword that spoke to him…_

Grace Fields, Lordaeron

The first wave went in.

A massive force of ten thousand horsemen and at least twice that number in infantry had been amassed under Lord General Volsung and his second in command, the Azerothian Anduin Praeton. Here, upon the Grace Fields, aptly named for their wide plains filled with Grace Given flowers, was about to become a battlefield.

Dwarven cannon roared in the distance, the sound of thunder massing on the horizon. Following that was the hissing noise of the ballistae projectiles zipping through the thick air.

"We're next" Valdar Justax said, making sure his troops were aligned in perfect order. After his commanding officer of the 77th Mounted Regiment had been killed in a skirmish near the town of Corrin's Crossing, it had fallen to Valdar to lead the force of five hundred knights.

Hardened by the callusing fights and the slaughter of Stratholme, Valdar no longer recognized the eager young boy he once was. Though he had not received a promotion since the death of the Knight-Commander, he was still the next highest rank in the chain of command.

After Stratholme had been purged, Arthas had ordered that Valdar's unit be put into the rearguard as the main army departed on the boats of the fleet. Seemingly abandoned, the rearguard was reabsorbed into the army by Uther's pervasive conscription officers, whom were now scouring the country for men eligible of service age. After being held in a camp for traitors because of some mix up in their orders for some time, the knights had finally been released, given their regular pay, and returned to the front lines.

Here, at Grace Fields was discovered one of the massive undead centers dotting the wilderness. Constructed from strange materials, the looming towers and defenses of the Scourge seemed to cry out death, strange artistry of ziggurats and pyramids, all adorned with some kind of skull or set of bones. It had been determined that these bases of operation worked as a sort of center of Scourge activity, and had cropped up as soon as the undead had allocated enough territory within the surrounding landscapes.

After the main force of undead moved out of the area, drawn out by the corresponding 9th Army, the 6th had moved in and begun a siege of the undead stronghold. For weeks now the artillery had battered at the Scourge's defenses and the army had positioned itself for the final assault: now was the time.

Everything in the vicinity of the terrifying structures was drained of life, even the ground. It was as if the place was hungering for energy, collecting it, and storing it in the massive luminescent pillars atop the pyramid structures on the edges of the Scourge stronghold.

Ahead the backs of the first wave began to disappear over the ridge, and the sounds of battle began.

"Alright men, prepare to move forward!" a voice came. Indeed, it was the Lord Commander of the division, the knight Knecht Claudius, one of the few soldiers Valdar had come to truly respect and admire.

"You heard him, mount up!" Valdar yelled, preparing the saddle on his horse. "Tosell, take the left flank through the trees to the east and make sure you do your best not to slow. You're the guard dog. Agos, take our right wing through the center and then curve to the left en echelon and fuse to my force once we pass that ziggurat" he said to the two errants whom would help him lead the charge.

Ahead was supposedly a line of assorted undead, mostly the mindless ones, the ones that retained parts of their former personality making them all the more difficult to kill in battle (usually referred to as the Furies), with a necromancer or two mixed in as well. On the flank, or what had been said by the runner that had briefed them, was what seemed to be a regiment of undead horsemen, with what seemed to be an very much alive human at their fore. These human knights and paladins that had given over their souls to the Scourge were referred to as Death Knights in memory of the terrifying reanimated undead that the orcs manipulated in the Second War. It had been said in the briefing as well that these death knights possessed many different powers, things exchanged for their soul to the Scourge.

"Alright, 77th, forward!" the cry came forth from the lips of the Knight Commander.

Slipping his helmet's visor down, the world was engulfed in blackness; the little light there was seeping through in slivers through the thin holes. Valdar's fingers tightened around the lance in his right arm. He could feel the moisture of his sweat soaking through the underclothing, the heat inside the suit of metal oppressing his skin.

To his left, a young boy, at most seventeen, grasped within his gauntleted hand a flagstaff with the blue backdrop and golden L of the Alliance.

"So young…" Valdar murmured, his voice muffled in the helm. He suddenly thought of himself. Today was his twenty second birthday.

Giving the horse a slight kick, the charge began! The horses in the line raced forward, forming a great crescent shape. Up ahead the soldiers fought as the main line was reinforced with more infantry as well as one of the mysterious mages. Ahead arrows were loosed, and the shadows of great ballistae shots were fired.

Feeling the exhilaration of a horse at full charge, Valdar nearly forgot to order the force to split and perform its flanking maneuver. With a flurry of hand signals, the great arc of the 77th Cavalry split into three forces, each one going its own direction.

The battlefield was now clearly visible. The great structures of the Scourge lay only a few hundred yards away, but the embattled main force could not proceed any further, the great host of the undead blocking their. The geography of the land lay as such: ahead was a range of hills, the tallest two known as the Pillars of Brotherhood on the maps. To the southern edges of the hills Valdar had sent a third of his force, to attempt to ford a river and pass behind the enemies lines. Another group he had sent to skirt the undead troops near the hills. His force was supposed to go through a small valley hinted at by some local folk to be in between another small copse of trees to the west of the main battle.

"_The high ground huh…_" Valdar thought "_Charging in there would be suicide_"

Pointing his lance in the direction he wanted the cavalry to go, he rode toward the gathering of trees, intent on winning the fight and holding the strategy. However, as they neared the trees, Valdar made out that the path had been…

"Sire! The flanking path! The tree's are broken, the entire area's blocked up" a scout reported, suddenly standing up from the grass. He must have been with an advanced mapping unit.

"Very…punctual, peasant" Valdar said angrily "You should have warned us of this before", anger boiled up inside.

"Ah, well, milord, you see, there was a storm last night-"the filthy man tried to retort.

"I don't want to hear your excuses! You may have cost us this battle!" Valdar exclaimed, jumping off his horse to examine the extent of the rubble blocking the secret path.

"How did they know we were coming through here? Its so remote from the battle…" Valdar whispered to himself, mind flashing through the possibilities.

Behind him, he heard his troops speaking in low voices to one another. They were probably losing confidence in him. After all, this was his first battle assignment as a commander of an entire regiment.

_The undead have fortified all along these hills…._

The briefing burst through his mind in short periodicals.

_There is a secret path to the west, we're nearly sure the Scourge have not discovered it. _

"_What to do…what to do_…" Valdar thought, seeing the smoke rise from the main battle nearly a mile away.

_These hills flatten further out, making it easier for mounts to charge, however our Lord Generals have chosen that this be the place to make our stand. _

"_Move further out…or ride back to the main line_"

"Lord Justax! A messenger has arrived from the main battle line!" one of his knights spoke up, and a man clad in little more than lowlife forester clothing dismounted off his scrawny mare. Kneeling, the man spoke up "Sire, the main force is bucklin'. We can't hold out much longer. Lord Claudius insists that you flank the enemy now"

"As you can see, our illustrious generals were wrong about this path. It's obviously…unusable" Valdar said, pointing to the rummaging of fallen pines.

He suddenly noticed upon the hill the slope of the trees, the bending of the abashira ferns to compensate for the incline. Suddenly, an idea struck him.

"77th, follow me!" he shouted out, leaving the bewildered messenger and confused scout in the dusty wake of the trampling horses.

_To attempt a maneuver unlike anything before, we can probably still win this! Now the hard work and training I've put these men through will pay off! _The thought burst through Valdar's head. Up the hill the two hundred horsemen flew, capes flowing behind them, their lance tips glittering in the sun.

In a brilliant echelon formation that Valdar had long since trained his soldiers came to fruition. Grasping the flag in his hand, he ordered the bugler to noise the tactic. The horsemen slowly spread out, the first row laying down their lances. Just a few feet behind them, the second row also set their lances in the position to attack. Behind them and to the sides lances pointed to the sides, the men trained to hold the wooden poles with both hands. The result was a perfect hedgehog formation, somewhat akin to a cavalry phalanx.

Though a bit rough, the formation held as the undead appeared above the horizon of the hill, the hideous beings already warned to their approach.

"Hold!" Valdar yelled out, keeping his horse steady "Hold!" he continued, seeing now some of the men begin to hesitate. "HOLD!"

The cavalry smashed into the undead wall, lances shattering and several men on the side of the formation thrown off their mounts by the sheer physics of the attack. Horses reared and trampled. Blood gushed and flew.

"NOW!" Valdar let loose a great cry from his throat.

In a snapping response to the command, the formation split amid the enemy, running hundreds down, and formed two wedges, all with the remains of their lances pointed forward. Riding beside one another, the two wedges remained unstoppable, a force unable to be contended with by the mindless undead that the Scourge had positioned here.

The horsemen continued forward, breaking through the undead lines, minus two dozen of their number. However, in the heat of battle and with the enemy so close behind, the formation could not stop to rescue their own. At full speed, the cavalry rode the full mile back to the battle in what seemed like a minute.

"_Without the lances, now with only the sword. It will be bloody for us" _the conscious of Valdar told him.

"To late to turn back now" he whispered. Ahead, the troops sent to skirt the undead flank joined them, and now nearly four hundred strong the knights of the 77th Cavalry smashed into the undead flank.

In seconds the defensive line of the Scourge was collapsed, the necromancers whom had directed the force far gone from the life their once gave their souls to cling to. The army poured forth into the gap, instantly overrunning the Scourge's base of operations in the province. The battle was over in minutes. The infantry cheered as Valdar's knights dismounted, celebrating the soldiers whom had given them the chance to break through. Valdar smiled giddily, like a child, absorbing the cheers and praise.

"Sire, it was your tactic that won the day" his lieutenant said, with his sword unsheathed, ever wary of remaining undead lurking in the way.

"I didn't think it would work. 'Twas the only thing left to do at that point" Valdar said, laughing to himself as he noticed his backwater accent, thinking of the peasant whom he had berated and been irritated of because of his own foolish sounding pronunciations.

Suddenly, before him appeared Commander Knecht Claudius, holding a bloodied rag over his head which had obviously been cut quite badly.

"That was…" the man said, pausing for a moment to breathe and think of words, "one of the most brilliant tactics I've ever seen"

Valdar smiled.

"We were about to break ourselves here. General Volsung had already deployed most of the reserve rearguard and was about to blow the horn for retreat. But then we saw you and your forces coming in from the west atop the hill that our men couldn't master, slaying all the undead in your way without stopping. Very well done, soldier" Claudius continued "Your promotion shall be well deserved, Lieutenant -excuse me, Captain"

He couldn't believe his ears. "Ca-captain? Sire, that's a brevet promotion!" Valdar blurted out.

"A long time in the coming, young one" Claudius said, beginning to turn his back. "I expect you to be at the next Officer's Meeting for the division, Captain"

_Captain…_Valdar thought. _A full officer_. Indeed, it had been what he was after sine joining as a knight; to be recognized above and beyond the regular errant and low noble that he was. Still stunned by the promotion that had jumped him up two ranks, he began to set help look for wounded amongst the dead. In any case, tomorrow would bring a new battle. One small victory such as here, would not justify winning an entire war.

Hope you enjoy, here's another chapter. Read & Reviews please)


	12. Chapter 11: Volition

**Chapter 11: Volition**

Northrend, Alliance base camp

Captain Merander Loren shuffled in the knee deep snow. The battle for Drak'tharon had dragged on now for more than two weeks. The fight had slowly shifted against the Expedition, whom had now had to even pull back in the face of the unending onslaught. As of now, there was no fighting going on, though most of the army was mobilized and already dug into trenches awaiting the next Scourge attack, and when strength enough was recovered, counterattack. Already many regiments had been completely cut off in the landslide of undead beasts, and the army nearly scattered in the last engagement.

Following Prince Arthas since the battles around Andorhol, Loren had thought he'd seen it all: the mindless waves of undead, the smoldering corpses of Stratholme, and now the land of Northrend. In this frozen hell, he now stood on guard over a small boar-like creature he had captured during a lull in the fighting. The boar-thing was arrayed upon a modest roasting stick and now cooked over a small wind fed fire. The warm meat would be a glorious turn from the stale hardtack biscuits and periodic nigh frozen salted pork. As a gust of wind picked up again, several men off guard caught the scent of the creature and were drawn towards the fire.

"Ah, looks like our little friend's almost ready" one said, reaching out to warm his frost bitten digits near the meager fire.

"Looks like we'll enjoy 'is here delicious meal" another spoke up, licking his blue lips.

"Back boys, I'm in charge of this camp while the Prince is away. I say who shall and shan't receive this" Loren spoke up, speaking with the utmost honesty, wanting to save the roasting pig for his fellow officers.

"Ah, ya' just want it fer' yer'self" the third said, eyeing the pig-thing dangerously.

Before Loren could reply, a figure suddenly approached from the dirt road that had been dug out by peasant laborers whom had come along lugging the materials needed from Lordaeron. Following the man were at least a dozen guards armored in the finest plate, fitted with sheet gold, rubies, and emeralds.

"Royal guards…" somebody whispered as the troop neared them.

"_Arthas didn't bring any of those with him…" _Loren quickly concluded that they must have just arrived from the sea, bearing orders of some sort other than that of the Prince's.

As the lead man robed in a thick blue toga with a fur coat thrown over the greater extent of his body, he spotted Merander Loren and spoke up "You are Captain Merander Loren of the Imperial Officer's Court, yes?" An air of nobility, and arrogance, was carried in his speech.

"Aye, sir, that is me." Loren replied.

"Is Prince Arthas Menethil in camp?" the messenger asked, taking a rueful look around the dirty makeshift camp.

"I apologize emissary, but the Prince is away on an errand. What brings you to this desolate place?" Loren now asked.

"By royal edict, you are to return to Lordaeron immediately. Lord Uther has convinced the King to recall this expedition" the man replied, shielding his face from a sudden gust. He then handed the Captain a paper signed in the script of royal advisors and bureaucrats.

Merander couldn't believe what he had just heard. All the men they had lost so far…all the fighting, and preparation, the suffering… "We're to just pick up and leave?" he scoffed at the emissary.

The nameless emissary sighed. "That's correct. My men report that the roads from here to the shore are held by the undead. You'll need to find an alternative way to your ships. Also, knowing that you are in the middle of a battle, the King has hired several hundred Stromgardian mercenaries of the same caliber of the great Danath Trollbane, Light rest his soul, to reinforce you line as you pull back. They are marching into camp as we speak"

And with that the royal messenger suddenly turned back and disappeared into the falling snow, presumably back to the ship that had brought him hence. A crowd had gathered as the two had spoken, and only now did Merander realize this. The men eyed him hollowly, as if expecting some kind of answer. The pressure of command took a hold of Merander, and he suddenly snapped.

"To hell with the undead! We'll cut our way through the woods blocking us to our ships!" he yelled out. "We're going home!" The men nodded eagerly. Even though they had suffered in this place, no man wanted to stay here any more than the next. As the crowd ran through the camp, they alerted the rest of the soldiers not already at the front line.

Gathering axes and even their own blades, the soldiers ran toward the thick forest that held them from the ships.

As the men progressed, Merander oversaw the actions of the camp, as he was second only to Arthas in the expedition. He slowly began pulling troops out of the front line so they could help cut down the forest quicker. The sooner they got to the ships, the sooner he could return to his family that awaited him in a quiet pastoral town in southern Lordaeron.

"The Prince has returned!" a call arose from a herald, who blew the trumpet announcing the his Majesty's return.

"Captain, why are the guards not at their posts?" Arthas spoke immediately noticing that his soldiers were missing.

"Well, milord, Lord Uther had your troops recalled at Lord Uther's request. However, your father was kind enough to hire several companies of elite mercenaries to alleviate the pressure of the undead pursuit" Captain replied rather hesitantly, wondering now if he should have waited for orders from the Prince.

"Uther had my men recalled? Damnit! If my warriors abandon me I'll never be able to defeat Mal'ganis!" Prince Arthas swore, his face turning even redder than what the cold had done.

"The ships must be burned…" the Prince then said after a brief pause. A dangerous light flickered in his eyes.

"Isn't that a bit much lad?" the dwarf Muradin replied, his eyebrows raising.

"Burned down to their frames! No one goes home until our job here is done!" Arthas spat. The Captain unconsciously backed away from the Prince, terrified of his Lord's anger. But the Prince never even looked at him a second time, immediately turning and rushing off to gather some soldiers.

"_Burned to their frames!" _the Prince had said. Merander sighed. Would there be no escape from this hell after all?

Lordegarde, The Chamber of High Lords

These past few months as war had ravaged Lordaeron's east. Now the corruption that had plagued the Alliance for so long had finally begun to show. The decay of its internal structure lay open and bare, much of it due to Jaeger Lorydist's own machinations. Over the years he had secretly contracted members of the underground; rogues of society, disgruntled citizens, and other contemptuous renegades whom had much to hate from the Alliance and little to lose. One such group was the disinherited and disheveled Alterac nobles, including one such Aliden Perenolde, son of the former King of Alterac, whom had somehow escaped his prison and gone missing during the ongoing war.

The group he had slowly formed over the years was now commonly known as the Syndicate, an shadowy organization that struck in the night, leaving not a trace. His vast Syndicate had spread over Loraeron into many of the major cities, spilling over into nearby Stromgarde as well. The Syndicate was officially led by the Aliden Perenolde, though the true power behind the throne of the organization was none other than Jaeger, whom secretly communicated with them through a series of intensely coded letters once a month, directing their movements and actions.

And now his pawns in the Syndicate had began to unravel the bark that covered the Alliance's rotting innards. Soon, yes soon…he would make his move. With the Syndicate giving him the chance to gain prominence in the political arena and his allies in the Cult of the Damned pressuring the Alliance High Command, he could now nearly move with complete freedom.

"…and so I propose that the internal tariff on corn be reduced. Our own supply of it is quite low this year, especially with war raging in our great farming lands. The other nations of the Alliance should be more than enough to help us cope with the shortages, especially with most of the wheat products we are producing going to the army" one noble, Duke Abbrion of Lannishire, concluded his report.

The sun had set in the great glass dome that covered the impressively sized Chamber of Highlords, the moon now replacing it. As the moon's silver light mixed with the dull flames, Jaeger, cropped in his usual black clothes, touched his fingers to his chin and stroked a thin goatee as if lost in thought.

"But this would ruin the income of my province! And what of our armies? We cannot sustain their armor and forge their weapons with corn. We shall have no money to do so!" another noble shouted out, and the bickering began again.

_"Now is the chance!" _Jaeger thought suddenly. "Dear Highlords of Lordaeron!" he shouted out, his voice ringing through the marble halls like sweet wine "Whilst many of you do argue over a most legitimate ideal, our soldiers" _They should be _my _soldiers _Jaeger thought venomously "continue to be slaughtered on our own home front. Our lands are being ruined by the Plague, which seems not only to kill human life, but everything, even the soil"

Jaeger turned his head to look at the moon, acting out perfectly the role of a most generous prefect. "I propose that indeed we do repeal our tariff on the imports of wheat and corn from other nations, but to offset the loss of money from this, I shall sacrifice my family's numerous savings in our coffers and halls, and direct it completely to the war effort"

A moment of silence passed, followed by thunderous applause. Cheers rang out in amazement of such a kind fellow, a man who would give everything for King and Country.

Inside Jaeger laughed, the laugher nearly surfacing as he smiled at the applause of the foolish nobles. Soon, when the time was right, he would strike. When the Cult of the Damned dealt with King Terenas, his real plans would begin. He would consolidate his strength now; gain the support of those whom would hear him, and like a viper, sting at the precise moment. With the Prince gone running off into some frozen hellhole and the King's health failing him, it would not be long before the throne belonged to Jaeger Lorydist, the supposed rightful heir of Lordaeron.

Daggercap Bay, Alliance Fleet anchoring

The dozens of ships that had ferried Arthas' army across the northern seas were now burning. Torches had been tossed into the fleet; each and every ship now that remained was now burning. Several boats had fled from the sudden onslaught of their own men, though most had been unmanned and just anchored to the great boulders that lay under the water.

Gyram Runetouch had served in the Silias Stilettos mercenary band for fourteen years now, just before the Second War had begun. Back then mercenaries were used by plotting politicals, nobles, and landowners to attain their deeds, whether eliminating a rival of some sort, gaining land, or settling old scores. The occasional civil war or battle usually got them recruited for extra money, money that unlike in a professional army, could be used on anything.

Though, the golden age of mercenaries seemed to be at an end. The wars of the past two decades had reintroduced massive armies to the fields, and united men against a common foe. True enough once those turbulent times had passed, things partially returned to normal as the Alliance began to break up, though it just hadn't been the same as before. And now another war threatened their way of life, but one had to do his seeking anyway. And that seeking had led to the Stilettos getting recruited by none other than the King of Lordaeron himself.

The distinguished mercenaries had embarked on what seemed like the strangest job ever when they boarded the royal ships and headed off into oblivion. Gryam unconsciously traced the scar on his chin with his thumb while pondering the past. His face was covered in stubble, the rugged man every much the stereotype of a scallywag mercenary.

"Oi!" he cried out as some of the younger members of the Stilettos cracked open a case of wines. "None o' that was in the business description now was it?"

The men moaned. Captain Silias was a good man, a decent merc who always took business as the first priority, no fooling around. No plunder. He kept his men (and a few misfits of other races) in good order, and that had earned the Stiletto's a name in the underground as one of the most disciplined units around. Maybe that was why the King was paying them such a high price to help out his Prince.

Even though they were ordered to help bring the Prince back, he had countermanded those orders and stated that what he was doing was on the basis of national security. He had then personally led the mercenaries to the Daggercap Bay, many miles away from the battle, and had ordered them to set fire to the fleet they had arrived on. Strange enough as it was, a money reward was a money reward.

Gryman looked out on the burning fleet. Just what in the seven hells was Prince Arthas thinking, cutting off his only route of escape?

"Speak of the devil" he rasped, which caught the attention of several men and a massive ogre (massively stupid as well). Here came the Prince, marching up, his face blotched with red fury.

"Are all the ships burning Chief Runetouch?" the Prince asked as he neared, cutting down several deadened tree branches that blocked his way with a short knife, the small dwarf whom supposedly was the brother of the King of Ironforge did the same as he trudged alongside Arthas.

"Aye, sir. Captain Silias should be on his way back from inspectin' the damage himself" Runetouch replied, motioning toward the columns of greasy smoke rising from the water. Smoke rose from behind them as well. The Stilettos had to fight through a wall of undead to get to the ships, the road made out by the army that had passed through the area flanked and been captured by the Scourge.

Gryam looked out at the clumps of his men whom had collapsed on the ground, soot covering their faces. After working his way through the ranks to second in command, he knew what it looked like after a battle. The men had fought hard today. Quite a few of their number had died too, but the money they received in the end would be sent to their families back home, and if they had no home, it would be split evenly amongst his comrades in the band.

As if today had had enough irony in it, Captain Silias suddenly appeared from the brush himself, several of his own mercenaries following him.

"Well then, looks like we're all done. Let's return to camp" Arthas said, leading the column of blades for hire back to the main base.

"We get our pay when we return?" he overheard Silias talking to Arthas.

"Of course…as I promised" the Prince sounded somewhat distant, almost disgusted at having to use mercenaries to do his work. As the group made their way back towards the camp, suddenly figures began to emerge from the forest that had blocked the easy route to the boats. They were soldiers of Arthas' army, and they came stumbling out of the forest as if blind; they had probably encountered undead on their way south. As the throng of soldiers began to grow, first dozens, then hundreds, they bore witness to the burning of the ships. Some fell to their knees, others stared in cold anger. Had the Prince not told them what he was going to do?

"Foolish question" Gryam berated himself.

He caught a glimpse of the Prince's face as he turned to face his troops and saw…a smile.

"Perfect timing…" the Prince whispered to himself.

"What the hell's goin' on with him?" somebody behind Gryam whom had also noticed the Prince's strange expression questioned. The troops began to give the mercenaries odd looks. Indeed, the Stilettos were on odd group, but they prided themselves in taming members of many known races, even trolls.

"Quickly my warriors! These murderers have burned your ships and robbed you of your way home! Slay them all in the name of Lordaeron!" the Prince suddenly called out.

"Damn beasts!" someone cried, the troops eyes all locked onto the mercenaries.

Gryam suddenly realized the situation. The Prince had used them to keep the troops from abandoning him in Northrend by burning their only route of escape. "It's a trap!" he cried out.

"Kill them all!" the cry raised with the soldiers of the Prince. They charge forward, smashing into the weary line of mercenaries.

"It's a trap! Retreat! Retreat!" Gryam called over and over before he suddenly found himself unable to shout anymore, his voice raw. Pulling his own weapon, he roundhouse kicked one of the footmen to the ground, thrusting his dagger into the man's throat, hot blood gushing out.

The world suddenly flickered…a feeling akin to a punch to the chest…looking down, he saw a sword tip thrust through his heart, a cold numbness beginning to spread. A knight atop his mount had impaled him and ran off to kill some more. Falling to the ground, Gryam gasped for breath, aware that his vital organs had been severely punctured. A pool of blood began to gather beneath him as his fellow Stiletto's fall all around him. They were not ready for such a betrayal. It was over in minutes. Gryam looked around to see if any of his fellow comrades had made it out. He spotted several friends, including Captain Silias, their eyes far off, lifeless.

Groans arose from mortally wounded men as the soldiers finished them off with mercy blows. The last thing Gryam saw was the disgusted face of a helmet-less footman thrusting his blade down upon his head…

As the battle calmed, the troops of the Alliance's expedition looked out again in bewilderment and hopelessness at the blackened chassis's of their ships.

"Our fleet is ruined…what will we do now?" one man-at-arms blurted out as they began to crowd around Arthas, begging for his help.

"Listen to me, all of you!" Arthas' voice boomed over that of the soldiers, "There is no way home for any of us save through victory! In this land we will stand or fall together. Now, return to the front"

And with that, the moment's killing was done. Arthas turned his head from the great columns of smoke still rising behind him and the bodies of the men he had double crossed.

Expedition Base Camp, Northrend, Two Weeks later

"You lied to your men and betrayed the mercenaries who fought for you! What's happening to you Arthas? Is vengeance all that's important to you?" a voice thick with the accent of Dun Morogh shot through the air.

"Spare me, Muradin. You weren't there to see what Mal'ganis did to my homeland" Arthas retorted with an air of arrogance.

"No, but I know something about murder. Remember boy, I fought the orcs. I saw what they could and would do to people. I saw villages slaughtered, countless dwarves lost!" Muradin replied venomously.

The battle in Northrend had raged for a little over a month now, thousands already dead or dying. The battle had swiftly turned against the Expedition once they had reached Drak'tharon Keep, Mal'ganis himself along with a whole new host of creatures tearing down the offensives Arthas threw at the dreadlord's castle. Running low on food and supplies, the men had begun to scavenge and forage what little they could find in the wilderness when able to sneak away from the frontline. Doing so had uncovered massive tunnels leading to even more massive underground halls, as if a dwarvish kingdom had long ago stood below the ground. But the dwarves that had accompanied Arthas told him that no good Earthen architecture was like this strange, alien stuff. From the ruins had come the spider-men, strange insectoid creatures that oddly resembled the fiends that the Scourge employed. Perhaps once upon a time this had been their land and the Scourge had taken over it, consuming these strange spider things into its own fold.

As for the fight, the men of the Alliance were now on the defensive, building structures, the fight now much like it had been during the fortnight long Siege of Hearthglen. That brought bitter memories for Arthas.

Looking around, the camp wasn't really much to see. A funeral pyre had been built so that all the dead recovered could be saved from living death. A field hospital lay not too far away, men screaming day and night from their horrid wounds. No undead attacks had begun today. Arthas called that a blessing, as it allowed the men to sleep where they had not done so for two days.

A terrible cry arose in the distance. "This is where your journey ends, boy!"

"Mal'ganis!" Arthas spat, running to the front to find the villain.

"Here you are, trapped and freezing at the roof of the world with naught but death to sing the tale of your doom!" Mal'ganis' voice echoed in the distance. As if following the voice, a wall of undead appeared out of the mist before the camp. The attack looked far bigger than anything that had come before.

"Heavens, they never stop!" "Its impossible, there just too many!" "We can never defeat those whom control the dead!" cries of dismay rose from the troops.

The wave of undead began to rush forward.

"Hold the line!" Arthas bellowed as he saw his men begin to buckle. Abominations, gargoyles, all sorts of undead, and even those strange obsidian statues were now hitting them. In the sky a massive shadow stole the sun's rays.

The cry rose: "Frost wyrm! Archers!" the lands of this northern desolace had not been kind, even to dragons, as the undead had seemingly taken them as well into their forces. The massive skeletal dragonspawn would usually accompany a large offensive, destroying everything in its sight.

With such foes in numbers abound, the men whom held the line began to buckle. Dwarven mortar teams that had accompanied Muradin on his quest launched strange explosives at the cliff sides that lined the edge of the camp, causing an avalanche of rock and snow to pour down onto the undead. That slowed them while more soldiers and a mage of the Kirin Tor from the western pass could reinforce this location. Before they could get there however, some footmen began to flee, and a route was soon in progress.

"Damn it…damn it, damn it!" Arthas cursed as he saw his soldiers begin to break and flee. It was a losing battle. For a split second, he thought he caught a glimpse of Mal'ganis standing behind his troops.

"This is bad. Looks like we're completely surrounded" Muradin broke his silence.

As the line stabilized about a hundred yards back into a secondary trench, Arthas remembered the intensely powerful magic sword that Muradin had spoken so highly of these past few weeks. "There's still one chance…help me claim Frostmourne! If it's as powerful as you say, it might help us tilt the scales in our favor" he cried out. It was a desperate thought, relying on a single blade to win a battle. However, Muradin had told him tales of his legendary weapon. If it really could melt the undead before it like butter, if it really could hold sway over the very air around it, then maybe…just maybe, it could win the battle, and kill Mal'ganis. As it was, Arthas doubted any casual weapon could destroy the demon anyhow.

"I have a bad feeling about this, lad. But, I promised I'd see this through" Muradin replied, looking hesitant.

"Is there something you didn't tell me about the sword, Muradin?" Arthas inquired, having to shout over the din of battle.

"No…not really, just…I have a real bad feeling all of a sudden"

"You're bad feelings have always meant naught" Arthas brushed away the dwarf's instinct.

After gathering up a force of his best guardsmen, Arthas sought out Merander Loren, the Captain and second in command of his force. "Captain, I'll leave you to organize our defense. Hold the line until I return"

With a confused face, the loyal Captain questioned, "My Lord? Where are you going?"

"We're going to turn the tables in this battle and finally exact our revenge for what they did to our homeland. Just you wait; we have a new weapon that will do the impossible. Godspeed, Merander" Arthas replied. "Let's move out"

The Captain watched as his Prince and his envoy disappeared into the snow, heading the opposite direction of the battle.

_Historical Analysis: The Culture of Lordaeron_

Lordaeron's people have long been proud and reliant on their history and heritage, creating their rich blending culture. Descended from the pioneers who braved the wilderness of the north from the southern reaches of the Arathor Empire, the Lordaeron citizenry are stout and worthy. Their lands are some of the richest farming pastures in all the known world, and the products that come off them are nearly unparalleled in quantity and quality.

In the cities, those whom can afford it wear flamboyant clothing made from rare dyes and rich linen, silk, and more. The cities are well paved and well planned, many of their designs based off of the _Ledure _design, calling for a open town square with four main roads (each representing cardinal directions) and a series of interlocking grid roads spreading out from them. The cities are a place of opportunity, though many can never afford to make their way to one. Statues of ancient heroes and plaques dedicated to ancestor's dot the landscape and streets. The architecture of houses and buildings is highly unique as well, a simple yet elegant design followed nearly throughout all the nation.

The western provinces are more commonly referred to as the "Heartland", as it is close to the glorious capital of Lordegarde, the city dating back to the rise of Arathor as a northern haven for priests and the Church of the Light. This being so, the Church has always had a strong presence in Lordaeron, creating many great institutions such as the Light's Libraries, and the Grand Monastery. Churches and chapels are in every city with a significant population, and the clergy are held in high regard.

The eastern provinces are often named the "Frontier-lands", as they were settled later, though in truth many of Lordaeron's greatest cities sit in the bosom of the east, making it a breadbasket and major production center. However, the east still has much wilderness to it, making it a much more dangerous place than the heavily patrolled roads of the west. It is dangerous to go into the countryside at night, as bandits and dangerous animals may roam. The wilderness is often avoided, and many times blamed for the bad things that happened in the towns, often creating a suspicious superstition of nature among townsfolk.

The people have often followed their leaders closely and loyally, thus giving an air of calm between the different estates. They are not as war-loving as the Stromgardian nation to the south, nor as pacifistic and isolationist as Gilneas, creating a strange neutral between the two.

As the years passed, Lordaeron's population grew to a massive six million, greater than any nation except perhaps that of southern Stromwind before the disastrous First War of Orcish Ascension. Able to field armies of great number, Lordaeron was able to expand its borders and dominate the northern lands of the continent. The Lordaeron flag is the symbol of the royal L, pierced by three swords held aloft on by a wooden banner with the symbol of a rose on its fore. During the cataclysmic Second War, Lordaeron suffered the most casualties of the member Alliance nations, their recorded deaths numbering measuring in the hundreds of thousands, civilian and military.

(Read and Review please and thanks)


	13. Chapter 12: Frostmourne

Disclaimer: I do not own the Warcraft series. That is Blizzard Entertainment's property. However, any characters not theirs are strictly mine, as well as story elements added onto the layer of the Warcraft lore

**Chapter 12: Frostmourne**

Port Hope's Rise, Lordaeron

"_When birds sense a storm, they hide" _the Prophet had told her _"From the skies shall a primordial force fall as an apple falls from a tree. There is no hope amongst these lands to fight this force; it is too divided by old hatreds" _

The old man's words had echoed within her, the same way his unbelievable power did. She could still feel the strength and conviction in his voice, fueling her utter belief in his words. There was just some kind of unspeakable truth to him, as if an aura of brilliance surrounded the man. Jaina Proudmoore just didn't have the words for it, but she tried to communicate that feeling with others.

Things were coming to pass as he had said. The Scourge was now spreading across all of Lordaeron, the Plague now infecting the metropolises of the nigh utopian western provinces. The Alliance was being thrust into internal chaos by politicians like the noble Jaeger Lorydist, whom Jaina personally despised having met him in person on one or two occasions.

Here at Port Hope's Rise Jaina had slowly been collecting ships. Ships to carry her follower's across the Great Sea into the unknown beyond, where somewhere Kalimdor awaited. The name of the place that she had chosen itself was ironic. Hope's Rise…A forest of masts was set before her view outside of the tavern's window, the great wooden poles swaying silently in the moonlight.

Though timid and shy, she had somehow, beyond all her expectations, convinced hundreds, nay, thousands of the words of the Prophet. He had told her he predicted that she had that power within her as well, though Jaina had never considered herself much of a debater or speech-master. In fact, all that she had wanted to do until this entire mess with the Scourge had knocked her peaceful world down was study and make both her father and Master Antodias proud.

The thoughts of the past led her back to Arthas…should she have tried harder? Would he have listened to her had she begged him even more? The thoughts of that day on the docks of the distant northern Lordaeron city flashed back through her mind again. With tears in her eyes she had begged him not to go. It was too much like a trap. But he had not even heeded her words, only one hard, cold stare that spoke everything he would not. And that stung her more than any hit to the face ever would. He wasn't the man she once knew, no, not anymore.

"Lady Jaina" a voice broke through her concentration on the cataloguing of 'volunteer' ships she had acquired. She recognized the voice as Chaplain Erken Kristoff, a royal advisor that had followed her from Kul-Tiras. The Chaplain had always been a most loyal servant, always truthful and tactful with his words. Jaina was never afraid to leave the widow-peaked Chaplain in command during her absence, not that she had had many encounters with the necessity of leadership in any case.

"Yes, Kristoff?" she replied groggily, blinking to try and refocus her vision.

"Ma'am, you should try to sleep some. Its four in the morning, and the Blue Maiden is already setting" he stated in a father like tone, referring to the smaller of Azeroth's two moons.

"I can't yet. I have to finish assessing what supplies we have for the trip. For all we know, Kalimdor could be two thousand leagues away" Jaina said, in no small thought.

"I think that is exaggerated a bit, milady. I'm sure that Kalimdor is, as most of our elite Tirrassian cartographers tell us, sure to be somewhere within eighteen hundred miles of the Maelstrom" Kristoff replied, pointing out the great whirlpool that marked the farthest explored vestiges of the Great Sea. "If we are able to harness the strength of the Maelstrom's winds, we can cut our trips time in half" he then told her.

"Indeed, though I'm still more preoccupied with our force and population. Most of our followers are Tirrassian, as well as our armed forces. The ships we've aquired are also mostly volunteer vessels; fishing boats, rich men's yachts, cargo vessels and old decommissioned Kul-Tiras naval vessels. I'm nearly sure that we have the support of Admiral Winchester and his 7th Fleet though" Jaina reported.

Reports from the north had gotten worse. Entire provinces had risen in panic as the unstoppable armies of the Scourge spread. Hamlets, towns, even great cities had fallen silent as either communications were cut off or more ominous things occurred. Though winning scattered victories, the Alliance Armies could not keep up with the ferocity of the undead's attacks as well as the speed with which they could raise new forces.

The capitol of Lordaeron's city watch had been at first doubled, then tripled, and now two divisions of soldiers garrisoned the city, manning the ramparts. A massive draft of anyone between the seventeen and forty seven summers and winters was in effect, and the wartime measures had taken place. Old military supply routes had opened up and the roads were cleared of civilian use as gigantic caravans carrying maize, wheat, and food for the soldiers made exodus of the city's storages and granaries.

"The entire 7th Fleet…that itself would be more than enough to transport what we have now. But we need to concentrate on gaining more of a stable population. We need more representatives from dwarven, elven, and distant human nations. We are after all, supposed to be the Alliance that will survive the coming debacle" Kristoff said, lighting a candle from the far side of the room.

"Of that I have no fear…in fact, I probably don't need to even preach any more gospel, and of that I'm ever so thankful. Speaking is a man's job" she said, remembering the apprehension and nausea she felt when giving her speeches. Kristoff grinned at those comments. "Yes, no fear at all. The word about us is out, now we will wait for the rest to play out as the Prophet told me it would" she finished, yawning, and then finally putting her head down atop the maps that lay scattered across the inn's table, drifting off into a deep sleep.

Dreaming, she remembered the words of the nameless Prophet: _When the time comes, and when all the world's hope seems lost, then the people you require will come to you, seeking that hope. _

Northrend, the Waygate

His swing went forward, but the animated skeleton raised its own weapon to parry the blow. In a split second, Arthas slid to the side with a sidestep from his right foot, the great mace now brought down low. In less than a second the undead beast felt the power of Arthas's blow as it ripped through the ribcage, sending bone dust into the Prince's face and completely severing the skeleton's body in half.

Side stepping, Arthas brought the mace back up, thrusting it at the chest cavity of a footman whom had apparently been very recently reanimated. However, the undead footman caught the blow in mid air, blocking it with his sword and pressing down on the other end of his blade with his hand to counter the force.

Lightning fast, Arthas pulled a smaller blade from his girdle, slicing at the former army member's neck, causing now-cool blood to spill out, spraying on Arthas's face. Twirling around, he freed his mace and crushed the undead creature's knee caps, then moving on to another.

Arthas beheld a whirl, a flash of Muradin's dangerous axes digging into an abomination many times his height. In seconds, Muradin had cleaved into the flesh of the abomination, jumping up and throwing a massive battle axe that had rested on his hip before. The shining axe smashed into the face of the abomination, digging deep into its corroded brain, putrid blood spewing out of the deadly wound.

"You remember the techniques I taught you good, Arthas" Muradin said grinning as he watched Arthas fight.

"That was a long time ago" Arthas said in between destroying the oncoming attackers. "I've learned plenty of new tricks to go along with it".

After Arthas and his small force of fourteen knights left camp to go in search of Frostmourne, they had followed Muradin Bronzebeard's maps and a special stone tablet he had found with an engraving of the path to the sword. If everything was right, and with a stroke of luck, Frostmourne would be held in a chamber past these ruins. Encountering undead, ice trolls, and the strange spider-people along the way, the group made its way up through a small mountainside pass where they had trudged through the snowy ruins of an ancient city.

"Those spider-people used to live here. I was able to decipher some of their writin' when we were on expeition here. They called themselves the nerubians, and they lead a vast empire across these icy steppes. Until the Scourge destroyed them of course, but when that was I can't say" Muradin had explained to Arthas along the journey.

Great pillars and mountain caverns decorated elaborately were nearly all that remained of this once great civilization. _And the same will happen to Lordaeron if I don't kill Mal'ganis now. _Arthas thought ardently.

A gust of wind blew across the opening. The travel over the mountain had taken two days now. When they had reached certain high points, they could see the valley where the army was holed up, surrounded on all sides by the never ending ranks of the undead. And past them even further was Drak'tharon Keep, the ancient castle that still stood looming in the distance.

"We're almost there" Muradin said, pointing out an old tablet that had lead thim thus far. The tablet was written in old nerubian, illustrating the road that took them from the valley through the mountain, past an dysfunctional Waygate and up to the strange vault that held Frostmourne. "If I'm readin' this right, we got just a few hundred more paces before we reach the gate. Now, how we open the gate is another story to me" the dwarf said gruffly.

"Good. If we don't hurry, I fear our army cannot hold for any longer. We've dallied enough" Arthas replied hurriedly. As their quest drew to a close, the canyon that they had traversed through became quite thin, now only allowing four men to pass shoulder to shoulder. In the distance, Arthas spotted the end of the long pass: a black door with enigmatic runes upon it encased in ice and built directly into the stone wall.

"Aye, this must be it, boyo" Muradin spoke out; the group finally now stopping to catch its breath.

"Indeed" Arthas replied, putting a hand to the door. He could feel the cold even through the thick padded leather underskins and chain gauntlet he wore.

"The text is an ancient one, part of the nerubian cipher that me boys and I discovered while on our little adventure. It speaks, 'Warm of flesh, cool of bone, he whom passes this gate, shall never return'. Arthas…I don't like this one bit, I really do have a bad feelin'" Muradin spoke up again, warning Arthas.

The golden haired Prince ignored him. "A riddle" he spoke silently. "And an easy one…" Slipping off his gauntlet and underskin glove, Arthas pressed his bare hand against the freezing door. As if reacting to magic, the door's runes burst alight with a silvery brilliance. From the runes burst great balls of energy which coalesced into strange ethereal beings.

"Guardians" Arthas spat. The door must've been guarded by these magical defenses. As the beings took form, they resembled a tall human, though wreathed in flowing black and blue energy, with armor that matched the door's metal. Indeed the door itself began to tear apart to arm the creatures that now stood before Arthas and his envoy.

"**Turn back mortals. Death and darkness are all that await you in this forsaken land**" a great voice rumbled through the open pass. An especially large magical guardian pushed his way past his other half dozen comrades, standing before the group at least two heads taller than Arthas.

"I doubt theres anything more terrifying down here than what we've faced already" Arthas commented, all of Northrend's horrors flashing before his eyes. He readied his mace as his soldiers readied their weapons.

"**Believe what you will, boy. You shall not pass" **the great Guardian spoke, the energy now boiling and bubbling like hot water. He raised a greatsword, and prepared to swing.

Letting forth battle cries, the envoy, Arthas, and Muradin clashed with their ghostly rivals. Arthas swung at the closest guardian, his mace passing harmlessly through it's body.

Before they could do anything, half of the envoy had been mortally wounded or killed by the guardians as their all-to-real blades sliced through the soft human flesh and petty metal.

"Aim for their heads! We've faced things like this before in the nerubian tunnels!" Muradin shouted out as he cleaved one of the guardian's helmets in two, dissipating the creature in a whirlwind of its own magic.

"Aye!" a chorus rose from the troops who squared off with the guardians. A dismounted knight swung his sword at one of the guardians as it's own weapon cut him nigh in half, his blood and gut bursting out of the mortal wound. Another crushed the head of one guardian, but already stunned by the fight was taken from behind and impaled on the black blade of another enemy.

All around, as men and ghostly protectors fell alike, Arthas could feel the energy of Frostmourne from just beyond this tunnel. Soon, so soon, its power could be his as well as revenge.

The battle was bloody and quick. Before he knew it, all his men save he and Muradin had been slain. With a slash across the cheek crying blood, he stood above the Guardian whom had confronted them before.

"**Turn away, before its too late…" **the Guardian said in pained tones.

"Still trying to protect the sword, eh?" Arthas spoke "I'm more than sure now that you serve Mal'ganis"

"**No…trying to protect you from it" **the ether Guardian seemed to gasp, before his ethereal body convulsed and shrank into oblivion, leaving naught but his plate armor behind.

"Arthas, maybe we should turn back" Muradin said, this time in full seriousness.

The Menethil ignored the Bronzebeard and continued through the small tunnel's passageway for what seemed like miles until finally the pale yellow light of the sun shone again. Before Muradin and Arthas now stood a large courtyard with a rotund rock wall and in the middle, a single dais with a large floating crystal above it. Clearly inside the crystal, the blade resided.

"Behold, Muradin, our salvation, Frostmourne" Arthas said smiling victoriously.

"Hold lad. There's an inscription on the dais" Muradin replied, holding up a hand to stop Arthas from advancing. The royal dwarf made his way to the dais and inspected the strange seals and runes that were embroidered into the thick grey stone. "It's a warning. It says, '_Whosoever takes up this blade shall wield power eternal_. _Just as the blade rends flesh, so must power scar the spirit' _Oh, I should've known! The blade's cursed! Let's get the hell outta here!" Muradin exclaimed, backing away from the accursed sword.

"I will gladly bear any curse to save my homeland!" Arthas said, striding toward the dais.

"Leave it be Arthas! Forget this madness and lead your men home" Muradin pleaded.

"Damn the men! Nothing shall prevent me from getting my revenge, old friend, not even you" Arthas snapped back. "Now I call out to the spirits of this place: I will give anything, or pay any price, if only you will help me save the lives of my people"

The air suddenly quieted, and only a single whisper was heard. Muradin and Arthas looked around in suspense.

Suddenly, the crystal fragment that encased the sword shattered into a thousand pieces as Arthas finished his sentence. Slivers of crystal ice flew everywhere in high velocity. The shards sliced like shrapnel through Arthas' armor, cutting the Prince deeply, as if a final test of his constitution. The shards seemed to puncture Muradin however, in a thousand more places. The small dwarf flew backwards, blood trailing his arcing pathway through the air, before he splattered on the ground, nearly torn to shreds by the ice.

As the crystalline ice exploded all about, above the dais Frostmourne hovered held in suspense by a minute magical field, and was suddenly freed from its long imprisonment, landing before the Prince's feet.

Muradin raised his arm as if trying to hold Arthas back once more before the light of life faded from his eyes. The dwarf suddenly became very still, the pool of blood that had seeped from his body already freezing.

Taking little notice to Muradin's bleeding corpse, Arthas threw down his hammer, the heirloom of all Menethil princes, and slowly, almost delicately, placed his hands on the hilt of the sword, and with one great heave pulled it the tip out of the snow.

Frostmourne ran nearly the length of his body, glowing orange runes stylized into its blade. Spikes protruded out the base of the blade, each helping to gut the enemy better. The guard was that of the skull of some animal's head, whose eyes steamed with an azure light. The hilt was an onyx metal that Arthas had never seen before, but its grip was worthy of tales.

Reality seemed to blur around him, the blade's power blocking his outer thoughts. Everything was focused now, so much clearer: it was all perfectly assembled in his mind. The only thing that could avenge the thousands whom had died and were still dying in Lordaeron was the death of Mal'ganis, the beast of Stratholme. Arthas could feel the blade in his hands seem to twist the air, to guide itself to his target.

In the distance he heard whispers; almost as if the wind were trying to talk to him. Was it the wind, or the blade?

The Prince suddenly fell to his knees. The whispers became voices, and the voices became shouts. Loud! The noise wouldn't stop! The shouts and commands became so much that Arthas Menethil grasped his head in pain-and suddenly all was quiet again, save the whispering voice which did not leave.

"I do this…for…" Arthas' voice trailed off as his mind set its course. There was only one thing to do now. And the voice of the blade agreed.

Northrend, Arthas's Base Camp

Captain Merander Loren had been doing a General's job for nearly two full days now. Unluckily for him, the Prince had brought no higher ranking officers with him able to command the camp at the moment. It was a strange twist in the usually ridged chain of command, but Captains usually led regiments anyway. He was in complete charge of the base camp, with most of the force out in the field to the west holding the line.

"Shore up those barricades! The undead are due for an attack any moment now!" he shouted out, men rushing to and fro. The thick clouds blotted out the sun threatening to once again precipitate heavy snows. Forges worked on overtime to repair broken weapons and armor, and the stench from the nearby field hospital reeked throughout the entire camp. About twenty thousand active soldiers and support units were still in the battle, reorganizing in the valley after the battle had gone awry two weeks ago.

Suddenly, Merander heard a voice call to him from behind.

"Captain" It was Prince Arthas.

"Milord!" Loren replied, relieved to see him. "We can't hold out for too long, our forces are disor-where is Lord Muradin?" he suddenly realized the dwarf, nor any of the envoy that had set out with the Prince had returned. He also noticed the menacing, nay, terrifying looking blade that now lay within the Prince's hands instead of his noble paladin mace.

"Muradin is dead" Arthas replied emotionlessly. As emotionlessly as Arthas had replied however, he still seemingly exhumed hatred and fury from his eyes. Merander's knees suddenly felt weak. There was a terrible energy around his Prince…

"Sire, you will be needed back at the front" he said meekly, pointing to the direction of that the sounds of war were coming from.

"No! This is where we destroy them! Form all units, we're pushing forward. With the power of this blade Frostmourne the undead shall perish before us!" the Prince exclaimed, brushing past the Captain, his blue cape flowing in the snowy air.

It was noon now.

In moments the Alliance soldiers broke the ranks of the undead that had laid siege to them with an extremely concentrated volley of projectiles and magic followed by a massive charge. In the air above, arrows in numbers flew with such intensity that the ground resembled a swampy reedgrass field as they came down. Ballistae and catapults let loose their terrible cargo wreathed in peat and fire, each shot destroying dozens of undead.

The army pushed forward, literally unstopping. Men would march over the bodies of their fallen comrades in what was one desperate last push. In the skies, three frost wyrms were brought down by Kirin Tor mages, whom battled the monstrous creatures in a storm of ice and fire magic.

Though terribly outnumbered, the advance was the classical spearhead _Lothar's Arrow _tactic, inspired by Anduin Lothar himself whom had led such attacks against numerically superior orcs during the First War. All the while, Arthas led his troops from the front wielding the runeblade Frostmourne which seemed to disintegrate the undead near it as Arthas commanded its powers.

By the thirteenth hour, the Alliance army had spilled into the Scourge's base camp, the fighting vicious. Cavalry crisscrossed the battlefield, infantry regiments melting into knots of unorganized men as the battle progressed, their commanders unable to rein their soldiers in as the _Arrow _pushed forward like an unstoppable force. Liches cast terrible spells of death and decay, dueling mages across the frozen landscape. Blood dyed the snow red.

The dwarves that had followed Muradin now looked to Baelgun, Muradin's second in command, whom had led them into the battle however hesitantly. He had sent a communiqué to the Prince wanting proof of Muradin's demise, and inquiry as to just how it had happened. Arthas instead sent him into the middle of the fray to die. Baelgun and his dwarves however, lived on, breaking out after being surrounded by thousands of Scourge troops. As they broke from the battle, Arthas set his own troops to hunt down the 'traitorous' dwarves. Baelgun cursed Arthas, and his followers in one of the nerubian tunnels, avoiding detection.

The shining armor and cold-raw red faces of the Alliance's soldiers contrasted starkly with the yellowed bones and dirtied armor of their opponents, giving an unmistakable line between the two forces. As Drak'tharon Keep began to crumble under the assault of forward Alliance artillery batteries, waves of undead began to pour forth. The advance halted, the troops broke; all at the gates of the Keep itself.

Drak'tharon Keep

"_The Legion demands your haste, Dreadlord"_ the voice spoke to Mal'ganis. The voice rang inside his black mind as if echoing against distant walls. Mal'ganis wiped the blood of a human off his face as he finished drying a human skull of its blood, licking the last remnants of brain of out it.

"Indeed, Lich. Our plans have come to fruition, and all has passed as you said it would. The Prince now comes to us, and his homeland is ravaged by the Plague of Undeath" Mal'ganis replied, his voice so dark and deep the icy walls seemed to pull back from him.

"_He shall come to us. Already he heeds the voice of Frostmourne. The sword shall guide him to you" _the voice of the Lich King echoed once again. It was nearly unbearable, to feel that cold, massive presence so close to his mind. The only thing that matched it, and sent him to his knees was the voice of Archimonde, the eredar Demon Lord of the Burning Legion's Armies, as he had commanded Mal'ganis of the Dreadlord castes to come to this world and aid his new pet, the Lich King.

"Then I shall go to meet him, and bring him unto our fold" Mal'ganis replied, in somewhat of an authoritarian tone. He disliked being 'commanded' by this Lich King. It truly had no loyalty for its masters, only a seething hatred yet blinding fear of the Legion. These were the only things that Mal'ganis believed kept the Lich King going. Once the Lich King had been the orcish shaman Ner'zhul, years ago, but after betraying the Legion's commands, Kil'jaeden, of the Legion's duumvirate with Archimonde, punished his faltering follower by stripping him of his feeble mortal body and encasing his spirit within a block of unbreakable nether-ice. After what must have seemed like eons of torture, Kil'jaeden had broken the spirit of Ner'zhul and sent him to do his bidding here on Azeroth once more. Nothing escaped the Legion's wrath; _nothing_.

Suddenly, he felt the ominous presence in his mind retreat back to its own thoughts. "Disgusting" Mal'ganis spat as he reclaimed the dark corners of his mind. He had been a Lord of the Legion for many centuries, serving with the most powerful dreadlords such as Tichondrius the Darkener, and then he had been ordered here to keep watch over the Lich King. However, as it turned out, to command the armies of the dead, the revered Kil'jaeden had expanded the Lich's mind exponentially, until his conscious was so great it could command entire armies of warriors and drive the Plague with just its will.

In fact, Mal'ganis had begun to feel an inkling of…fear? Was that what mortals called it? Just being on Northrend had made him feel uncomfortable, close to this monstrous ethereal mind that probed and droned _everything. _

Finally standing, Mal'ganis stretched his body to its full length. He stood easily nine foot, with a wingspan of over twenty five feet, with pale white flesh pulled tightly over his skeletal frame. Two horns protruded from his head, each curling backward and then forward again, ending just above his two eyes, which seemed to be orbs of green floating in an aura of ebon. His sight alone had inspired the terror of the Alliance soldiers, leave be his powers.

The Lich King had…instructed him, to await the human Prince at the gates of Drak'tharon. For some reason, the Lich King wanted to use the Prince as its own puppet, to "better deceive the humans" It had said.

With his own potent (though seemingly childlike next to the Lich King's) mental powers, Mal'ganis sensed that the battle outside was progressing as he had wished to. Above he could hear the Alliance's artillery smashing into the mountain face, ice and rock falling onto the decrepit keep as result.

The Alliance's army thrust itself against what seemed to be a brick wall, many of its regiments began to break and flee towards the rearguard, whom had set up beforehand defensive fortifications along a small canyon pass. Mal'ganis had opened a nearly clear path for the Prince to enter though, and in his rage, he would do so with all speed.

It had been a game until now. Mal'ganis had teased at the Prince's consciousness, tearing his morals away and replacing them with unbridled fury. It had been he whom had crafted this Prince's own mental deterioration, and he laughed at such things. Indeed, playing with the minds of these feeble mortals was a game to him. Walking with nothing but the heavy sounds of his footsteps towards the great gate before him, Mal'ganis felt the surroundings of Drak'tharon with his mind, as if looking through the eyes of each and every one of his minions. There he was! Prince Arthas had come thus far, flanked and surrounded by loyal guardsmen who took countless blows for him, his soldiers dying left and right. Gleaming in his plate, Arthas shot a stone cold gaze at Drak'tharon's gate as he neared.

"Mal'ganis! Its time we finish this!" he shouted out, as his men cleared the surroundings. In his hand he bore Frostmourne, the Accursed Runeblade. Frostmourne held more secrets than the puny Prince would ever know. In any case, his time was almost up. The Prince thrust the blade through one of the necromancers whom stood on a raised mound to control his minions, blood gushing through the great gash it left. The breathless necromancer fell to the ground, and Frostmourne seemed to glow all the brighter, as if in joy of the bloodshed.

"Frostmourne is your end, _boy_" Mal'ganis said to himself, his twisted smile revealing rows of dagger-like teeth complete with two great fangs where human canines would be. Mal'ganis threw open the great chained doors. Sunlight poured into Drak'tharon's main hall, bathing it in the first light it had seen in years. There stood Arthas, not twenty feet away from the huge gates.

Mal'ganis took heavy steps toward the Prince, whom was flanked by a dozen of his loyal men. The soldiers all recoiled in fear, taking steps backward as Mal'ganis' massive frame moved closer; all but Arthas, whom stood resolute.

"_He's already changed_" Mal'ganis thought, seeing the cold, focused meaning in the little human's eyes. Mal'ganis' wings spread behind him, a great span of twenty feet of thin black skin over diamond hard bones. Faster than any man could have imagined, Mal'ganis jumped through the air, slicing off the heads of two footmen before any of their party could react. Great spouts of blood rose before their bodies fell to the ground. Before even their heads could roll on the crushed snow, another four footmen had been slaughtered by Mal'ganis' lightning movements, his claws gutting and disemboweling.

"Prince Arthas!" one of them cried out. His golden armor gleamed in the thin sun, indicating he was of higher rank. Perhaps a captain, as the humans liked to call them. The man ran at Mal'ganis, whom slashed at the captain with his razor claws. The man raised his kite shield which seemed to be reinforced with special alloys and magical gems, signs of high birth. The raking claws left deep gashes in the shield, but did not cut through all the way. The man swung his blade, confident that he could cut along Mal'ganis' torso, but the demon was too quick. Easily stepping aside Mal'ganis gathered a green ball of magical fire in his hand, as the man stumbled to regain his balance after the attack. Before he could raise his shield again, the Nathrazim threw the ball of fel magic at the hapless human, whom writhed in pain for what must have seemed like him an agonizing eternity, before finally lying still as a charred corpse.

Around the Prince lay the remains of his envoy. Without blinking, the Prince had kept his eye on Mal'ganis as he butchered his men. Now, in the midst of the Scourge's army, the Prince and the Demon stood eye to eye.

"So, you've taken up Frostmourne at the expense of your comrades lives, just as the Dark Lord said you would. You're stronger than I thought" Mal'ganis spoke. Indeed, the Lich King must have had his eye on this young man for some time for good reason.

"You waste your breath, Mal'ganis. I heed only the voice of Frostmourne now" Arthas spoke back.

"You hear the voice of the Dark Lord. He whispers to you through the blade you wield. What does he say to you, young human? What does the Dark Lord of the Dead tell you now?" Mal'ganis said, the feeling of accomplishment rising in him. It had all gone according to plan.

A brief silence between the two arose, nothing the but a whisper in the wind making noise. Even the background sounds of the battle had been drowned out.

"He tells me that the time for my vengeance has come" Arthas uttered, as if the wind had told him to finish what he had begun. His eyes suddenly washed over with flowing blue energy.

"What?! He can't possibly mean to-"

Arthas ran at Mal'ganis and with incredible agility dodged Mal'ganis' claws which desperately swiped at the Prince. In fear, Mal'ganis began to conjure the fel fire at his mouth again, and released it in a great sweeping motion which turned all the undead around the two to ash in mere seconds. But before the attack could finish, Mal'ganis felt Arthas drive Frostmourne deep into his torso, cutting him nearly in two. Molten green blood poured from the wound as Mal'ganis howled, falling to the ground. As the dreadlord clutched his mortal wound, he turned to see Arthas standing behind him with Frostmourne stretched out in a wide sweeping motion. The blade seemed to drink in the blood of the demon and take the strength right out from it.

"It is finished…Not even the Twisting Nether will harbor you now, MAL'GANIS!" Arthas shouted out as he brought the blade down for a killing blow on the gaping face of the dreadlord. The deed was done. Before Prince Arthas lay the dead bodies of his comrades, and the charred remains of dozens of Scourge minions; even the surviving undead seemed to back away from the Prince as he wandered aimlessly away from the corpse of his prey.

As the Scourge's army cleared a path for Arthas, he trudged through the deepening snow. Stripping his cape which bore the name of Lordaeron, unbuttoning the royal sigil from his armor, and unchaining his Holy Book of the Light, Arthas passed out of what seemed like reality into the blinding snow.

The Epitome of the Prince

After taking his vengeance upon Mal'ganis, Prince Arthas wandered off into the frozen wastes of Northrend.

Tormented by Frostmourne's maddening voice, Arthas lost the last vestiges of his sanity.

Now driven by the sword's dark will, Arthas plans to return home to Lordaeron and claim his just reward…


	14. Chapter 13: The Passage to Despair

**Chapter 13: The Passage to Despair**

Lordegarde, Lordaeron. One month later

In the distance bells rang. The cheers of thousands echoed for what seemed a lifetime, as if staining time with their rejoicing. The city of Lordegarde stood as a testament to that time. For two and a half thousand years the city had been the gathering place of farmers, fishermen, river folk, religion, merchants and traders, artisans and craftsmen, peasants and royalty. Over that time it had become one of the two largest cities in the world, matched only in glory and population by far off Stormwind.

Down a steady avenue, a figure cloaked in a jet black robe embroidered and bordered with silver walked. This person was a hero. One who had returned prodigally to save his homeland which had been ravaged for many months now. The people cheered this hero. They cheered their Prince, the future King of Lordaeron.

Prince Arthas walked on pink, white, and red petal laden streets, with crowds of smiling maidens, eager children, plated ceremonial knights, trumpeters and bands, everyday men whom worked the fields and shops. Above, great arches, buildings, and statues that defined the history of the nation stood. The joy of the people seemed unending.

Clouds in the distance had turned pink and fluffy. An orange sky blazed overhead, the day's final hours witness to this fateful return. Flanked by two acolytes of similar dress, the Prince continued his strides down Kingshail Avenue, which bisected through the center of the city.

Royal Oak, ebonwood, maple, and brightgrove trees lined the streets, giving pleasant shade during the oppressive summer months. But now, winter was upon the land. The first chills had come and gone, and the leaves of the Lining Trees had begun to fall, adding to the mass of petals that the crowds threw at the Prince.

Amidst the cheering crowds, the cloaked Prince Arthas let out a hand and caught one of the falling petals. Staring at it for a fleeting moment, he noted that it like all things would soon die; he let the petal drop, and continued onwards.

Soon the great castle of the capitol lay before them, and a glittering moat prevented further passage. Quickly though, as the Prince approached, the heavy moat dropped down, dust bellowing in its wake, giving a surreal and picturesque image.

Lords Guard Lyon Swordshift stood by the doors to the royal chamber where King Terenas sat, eagerly awaiting his son's arrival. He and eleven others had been chosen as the Lords Guard, whom had sworn to protect the King at all costs, including that of their lives and their family's lives.

He was positioned on a place of honor today; First Guardsman of the Gate of the Royal Vault-Throne.

"Do not compromise the name of the Lords Guard Swordshift! The Prince and his father are to be kept safe to the utmost call of duty, especially since we are in a time of war. You will be in command of the Guard stationed in the Vault-Throne this day and responsibility for anything that happens is yours. Is that understood?

Outside, he heard in a muffled sound under his helm which spiked forth with blue-plumed feathers the crashing of the moat drawbridge. The Prince was here!

Lyon stiffened as King Terenas' face lightened and he sat more erect when the sound of the drawbridge's dropping echoed in the Vault-Throne. Though the Prince had disobeyed direct orders and recklessly commandeered the one of the Alliance's fleets, he was still beloved by his people and even seen as somewhat of a rogue hero whom had stormed off against the orders of a bureaucratic and corrupt government to do the just thing.

A moment of silence was broken as heavy footsteps of a fully plate-laden man neared the throne doors and threw them open violently. Glancing to his left ever so slightly, Lyon Swordshift saw the Prince; a figure with a flowing scorched brown cape, heavy pauldrons of jet black bulking from under the cape's pins. Each shoulder pad bore a skull carved into the metal. His breastplate and girdle were of a similar color, and he wore a distinct chain mail underneath, which seemingly drew in the light that flooded through the sunroof. His leg plates were engraved with alien runes, and his boots bore great furs that must have kept him warm during his time in Northrend. Two acolytes followed the Prince, each dressed in a garb of similar color to the Prince's cloak, which concealed their faces. Each of them carried a long runic halberd in the similar fashion of the Lords Guard. But what caught Lyon's eye was the sword in Prince Arthas' hand. The Prince's gauntlet seemed to grip it, almost hard enough that it seemed like it would break.

Down its long shaft, more of the alien runes were carved with what seemed like the greatest of craftsmanship, ending the blade with a guard that was styled in the sense of two horns under which the handle bore the face of a grinning goat's skull, whose eyes effused a bluish energy.

The Prince marched toward the center of the Vault-Throne, atop the great sigil of Lordaeron which decorated the marble floor. To the sides, the blue cloth that hung from the walls rustled with the cold wind that accompanied the Prince.

Prince Arthas dropped to one knee, keeping his sword in front of him as if at a knighting ceremony. His head dropped to look at the floor, and Lyon spied the Prince's hair tumble from under his hood: it was pure white, not the blazing gold that he had worn when he last walked these halls.

"Ah, my son" the King sighed in exultation. His son had returned from certain doom, and to a father, no greater relief could ever come. Lyon caught what he thought were tears in the old man's eyes as he stood, shaking off the illnesses that had befallen him over the past few years of his reign. It seemed that this occasion had brought back the old man's strength.

Before the King could speak another word, Prince Arthas slowly began to utter almost as if an incantation.

"You, no longer need to sacrifice for your people. You no longer need to bear the weight of your crown. I've taken care, of _everything._"

The Prince raised his head and stood. He threw back his hood revealing a complexion that seemed beyond pale, almost a snowy white. Bags hung from the Prince's eyes to show his seeming exhaustion, but his stubble-covered face was twisted into some kind of evil grin. His two acolytes split off, each one taking a flanking position around the Prince.

Lyon's training kicked in. He raised his pike, as did the other seven Guardsmen within the Vault-Throne. Were the acolytes assassins?! However, beyond that everything stood still. Even the air seemed imperceptibly thick.

The Prince walked without a care up the steps towards the Throne where his father stood, clutching the side of his seat to stay upright. Arthas Menethil put an arm around his father, as if to embrace him, but with one arm lifted his rune-blade.

Lyon darted forward, every instinct urging him to keep the King away from the sword, even if it was his own son's. As the other Guardsmen looked on in confusion, probably wondering whether or not to restrain the Prince of all the lands of Lordaeron, one of the acolytes that had followed Arthas swung his halberd at Lyon Swordshift. Lyon threw down his ceremonial pike and drew his own sword, slashing at the acolyte that held him back.

The other acolyte suddenly let loose a bolt of magical frost from his cracked and scarred hands which instantly froze to death one of the Guardsmen closest to the King and his son.

As Lyon traded blows with the acolyte, he all too soon realized that even he, a Lords Guard, was outmatched by this…thing. It suddenly drew its own blade and before Lyon could even trace the blow, blood shot out from under his armor. Lyon collapsed, the sunroof of the Vault-Throne spiraling above him. His head lolled over to the side to witness the most horrific moments of his life.

"What is this? What are you doing, my son?!" the King called out in confusion.

"Succeeding you, _father!" _The son replied in an insidious tone. With one fell swoop, his blade stabbed through the throat of King Terenas Menethil II and erupted out the other side of his neck, royal blood gushing from the mortal wound. It seemed almost as if a mercy kill, but not so much as to reward the victim with instant death. The King slowly grasped his son's garments, not even able to look into his assailant's emotionless stare, the gurgling noise of blood in his mouth the last sounds he made. Prince Arthas pushed forth his father's body to release his sword from its target and the King dropped to the floor, his crown falling from his lifeless head.

The crown bounced off the steps, blood trailing in its wake. Lyon watched as his own blood pooled underneath him, the attack made on himself now obviously a quick thrust through the weak armor under his armpit. As the King's body crumpled to the floor, Lyon summoned the strength to raise his body and grasp his sword. Around him the two acolytes were in combat with the remaining guards and Arthas was wiping the blood of his father off on his cloak.

"Traitor!" Lyon choked, raising his blade against the Prince.

"Your words are nothing" the Prince replied, now done cleaning his blade. He slowly bent down to pick up the fallen crown, but Lyon staggered over to it with all the strength he had.

"This belongs not to you, betrayer!" he stammered, tasting blood.

"Admirable resistance…but futile" the Prince replied. He then raised his terrifying sword. With incredible strength, the blade cut through Lyon's own mithril sword with ease, and then his armor, spilling more of his precious lifeblood. Unable to stand, Lyon fell backwards, a mortal wound now etched in his chest.

One of the acolytes finished a groaning guard, impaling him on his halberd. Prince Arthas then stood over the dying Lords Guard Lyon Swordshift, blocking out the golden sun that leaked through the sunroof. He stared directly at Lyon, his piercing blue eyes cutting into Lyon's soul.

"This kingdom shall fall, and from its ashes shall arise a new order that will shake the very foundations of this world!" he then spoke, and abruptly turned about face and left the Vault-Throne as if nothing had happened.

Chamber of Highlords, Lordegarde, One week later

Chaos had erupted in the Chamber of Highlords. Jaeger Lorydist sat silently among the midst of the anarchy, nobles and regents screaming at one another, two of them in the far corner even coming to blows. Parchment was being thrown, many Highlords had already rescinded their allegiance to the Chamber, which was serving as a Regent body until Calia Menethil, Terenas Menethil's daughter, arose to the crown. In the countryside, militias were being brought up and soldiers already beginning to leave the fronts against the Scourge to defend their homes against the nobles whom now wished to invade each others provinces, many such soldiers being commander's needed in the field more direly, such as the recently promoted Brigadier General Garithos, Vice Admiral Tereth, among others.

_This is how you destroy two thousand years of history. _He thought to himself. It had happened just as his benefactors in the Cult of the Damned had told him. Terenas was dead, slain by his own blood, his very own son. It was the perfect irony. Now the late King's daughter Calia Menethil, was gripped by inaction and refused to ascend to the throne until after the traditional four week burial period for her father. Her hesitation coupled with the rise of factions within the Chamber of the Highlords had created a domestic polarization, one which would serve to Jaeger's purposes: a civil war to establish his power as that of Lordaeron's King, and then using the information he had obtained while collaborating with the Cult, destroy the Scourge and become a hero to the leaderless masses.

An evil grin appeared on Jaeger's face. He stood and silently walked past the portraits of the Kings and Queens of Lordaeron, the heroes of wars and great masters of the Church. In their presence, he laughed, still hearing the commotion taking place in the great domed Chamber.

As the sun began to shine on Jaeger's face as he exited the building, a military man dressed in plate and mail. Behind him were several hundred soldiers from the Home Guard garrison in the city. The man gave a basic salute, and nodded his head. Jaeger Lorydist nodded back, and spoke up

"Those in that building are traitors to the Kingdom! They squabble and argue while your brothers die on far-flung battlefields and your families are endangered by the roaming undead! Arrest them all, and kill those who resist!"

The troops cheered, finally a light of order flooding into the chaotic scene. Since King Terenas' death, the Mayor of the city had held the capitol together using marshal force only. Jaeger quickly made alliances with many of the military commanders that were assigned to the city and its surroundings, and had brought much of the army in the capitol province under his control.

The soldiers rushed inside the great historical building. As Jaeger watched with the utmost pleasure, he could hear slight sounds of battle as the Home Guard garrison footmen battled with the Lord's Guard whom protected the innermost chamber.

As Jaeger's joy was coming to fruition while he watched the long column of his rebel troops enter the building to 'restore order', suddenly a runner appeared in front of him.

"Sire, Lord Garithos has marshaling an army near the town of Hearth-helm. Baron Pagennt has declared his loyalty to Garithos and his militia are joining with the Brigadier General" the runner spoke, panting for breath.

"So I was not the only one whom planned for a time like this, eh?" Jaeger thought smugly. Further crumbling of the noble's combined power over Lordaeron would only serve his goal.

Soon, Lordaeron would be engulfed in civil war, and its true dynasty would be returned to power!

North of the Grace Fields

"King Terenas has been killed" the words came from Knecht Claudius' mouth.

An eerie silence settled around the small campfire where the officers of

the 6th Army's cavalry had been joined. Valdar's mind couldn't comprehend the sheer loss.

Who…When? The questions boiled up through the silence.

"No official information has come from Lordegarde, but word in the country is that Prince Arthas whom had recently returned from Northrend killed his father, spilling his kin's blood in the holy court room of the Kings of Lordaeron itself. It seems to impossible to be fabricated to such a wide extent. It would seem that Prince Arthas has betrayed us"

Another eerie silence fell over the camp. How could the Prince of Lordaeron, Arthas Menethil, whom had time and time again showed his worth to the crown and his devotion to his people slay his own father in cold blood?

"Also" Claudius' voice came upon the men again "Several factions following differing nobles have sundered the government, especially in the west. Princess Calia and the Loyalists that follower her still hold the Capitol, but many of the neighboring provinces are preparing to go to war with each other"

The bad news continued to pile. Valdar began to see despair crawl into the faces of his fellow commanders. Between the foolish nobles fighting each other in the west and the Scourge descending upon them from all directions, as well as the continual spread of the Plague, the future seemed bleak at best.

"Lord Uther retains command over all Alliance forces by the right of succession and would be called to be Regent to the Throne of Lordaeron was he not so far from the capitol and so needed at the front. So I want to inform and reinforce the fact that you all will continue to serve with distinction under the Alliance's flag no matter what. I will not allow anyone in this unit to leave and ally themselves with these nobles. The current state of affairs in Lordaeron is too dire to allow such things. We now have three parties vying in this country: the various nobles, the Alliance's forces, and the Scourge. First the Scourge must be defeated, then we can squabble amongst ourselves. At least then there is still hope for survival!" Knecht Claudius boomed. His loud voice drew the heads of several lowly footmen whom had been staring into a campfire nearby.

"Sire, I heard that the Kingdom of Azeroth would be sending its army to reinforce our positions. The marines of Kul Tiras would also be a welcome appreciation to our beleaguered troops, and what of Stromgarde? Do they still refuse to aid us as stingy Gilneas?" Valdar's questions suddenly burst forth. An awkward silence this time came upon the camp. Embarrassed, Valdar unconsciously ducked his head.

"I have not the answers for all these questions. As you all know, Kul Tiras' navy is operating with free will in our waters, transporting goods and supplies to our forces and their marines have indeed secured many of our important port cities whilst we draw out our forces to combat the Scourge. Stormwind's…generous offer of soldiers was most likely overblown by rumors. They are indeed drawing up advanced brigades to send us, but those will take time as that Kingdom is situated far away from our own. My guess on our situation with Stromgarde is as good as any other mans" the newly made Lord General replied.

The words echoed within each man. This part of their lives would never be forgotten, could never be forgotten. The memory of this night would haunt many a man, as the sounds of the death of a King spread across the land. People began to despair, if they had not done so already.

The Dissolution of Union

Order began to break down, and the Alliance's forces became increasingly isolated amidst the flood of refugees and confusion. Simple folk rushed to get to someplace, anywhere safe, even if just to fetch bread and water before moving on. The loss of leadership in the Alliance was a stunning blow, and with the apparently lack of a successor to the leadership of the immediate Alliance, the Scourge was able to roam with near free will.

With each passing week the Scourge's forces grew in number as the dwindling and increasingly isolated Alliance forces reeled from the massive blows from the undead. Uther the Lightbringer, though incredibly skilled as a commander, was not able to hold back the flood of undead as the Alliance began to fragment due to the civil war being waged between the leaderless nobles (which was in part due to the machinations of the Baron Jaeger Lorydist).

As the Alliance's fronts began to crumble, the Plague slipped past the quarantines in the east through the refugees, and began to take a hold on the last bastions of uninfected zones, including Lordegarde, the capitol and founding city of the Alliance.

(Author's Note: Ok, I'm back! Sorry about all the waiting, but I've had a busy time the past few months with college orientations and AP tests and not to mention having to replace the hard drive on my computer which effectively robbed me of what I had written for this chapter so far. Anyway, summer seems to have calmed down and I intend to speed up the rate of releasing new chapters hopefully to once every week or two weeks. Read, review, and thank you to all those whom had encouraged and continue to loyally read The Third War. See you soon)


	15. Chapter 14: Path of the Damned

**Act 3**

**Chapter 14: Path of the Damned**

_The story unto now: The Lich King's plague of undeath has spread through the capitol city, and into the outskirts of Lordaeron. Shocked and disheartened by the loss of their beloved king, the forces of Lordaeron were scattered by the ravenous undead warriors. Now Lordaeron is but a shadow of its former glory-and Prince Arthas is yet to be seen…_

Outskirts of Vandermar Village, One month later

The evening had begun to set in. Within a grove of trees whose colors had begun to fade as autumn passed away, lay a hidden graveyard. The words on each tombstone had also faded with time, many of the stones themselves covered in vines and weathered down to nubs. The forgotten graveyard lay not far from the village of Vandemar, a small community not far from Lordegarde.

In the middle of the graveyard a sudden burst of green light followed by a vacuous hole appeared. The hole violently tore the gravestones from the ground, and sucked in the loose dirt and leaves. The magical vacuum then calmed and slowly dissipated, leaving a single character upon a skeletal horse alone in the graveyard. It was a figure armored heavily, with a black fur cloak upon his back. His face was craggy and unnaturally pale, his hair snow white.

"Tss" the man rasped "What trickery is this?!"

The man suddenly realized that he was not alone, leapt from his skeletal steed, and drew his long blade. Above him on a hill stood another figure, one with great wings, hooves, and horns. The stench of death permeated from the monster, whose eyes resembled two orbs floating in a sea of blackness.

"Mal'ganis?! I don't know how you survived but I will-" the summoned man shouted out.

"Calm yourself, Prince Arthas. I am Tichondrious. Like Mal'ganis, I am a dreadlord, but I am not your enemy. In fact, I've come to congratulate you" the dreadlord spoke.

"Congratulate me?" the Prince repeated, unbelieving.

"By killing your father and delivering this land to the Scourge, you've passed your first test. The Lich King is pleased with your…enthusiasm" Tichondrious replied.

"Yes. I've damned everything and everyone I ever loved in his name. And yet I still feel no remorse. No shame. No pity."

"The runeblade you carry was forged by the Lich King and empowered to steal souls. Yours was the first it claimed"

Arthas gripped the blade tighter, and replied "Then I'll make due without one. What is the Lich King's will?"

"Many of the acolytes that once made up the Cult of the Damned are in hiding amongst the populace due to the purges that the squabbling remnants of this country. You must rally them and bring them to this place."

"Why here?" the fallen Prince asked.

"This place, though forgotten by civilization, is firstly home to a strong nexus of magical energies, and secondly, it is a base of operations used by the Cult during the scourging of Lordaeron. I suggest you prepare, for there are guards in the outlying towns that will recognize you. Raise the dead in the graveyards and mass graves outside the cities and slaughter everything until you accomplish the goal"

"As the Lich King wills." Arthas replied. Several dozen ghouls emerged from the surrounding forest, beckoned by the will of the Prince. Arthas slowly held up his arms, letting a sickly green magic flow from them. His body became a pillar surrounded by the aura which reached into the ground, and spread out in all directions as a shockwave.

Mounds began to appear in the dirt, as if someone, or something, was trying to push its way out. Slowly, skeletal fingertips and arms began to emerge from the dead soil. The skeletons, each surrounded by the same aura as the Prince, began to stand upright. Some were missing limbs, others various bones that had been too decayed by time, but when the summoning was complete, the skeletons of only about twenty had been raised.

Arthas looked slightly annoyed at the small number and cursed.

"Fear not Prince, your powers may be weak now, but with due time, you shall become a fully fledged Death Knight, perhaps one of the strongest of all time" Tichondrious said monotonously before withdrawing into the shadows.

Arthas ignored the comment, and turned towards a sign post on the outer reaches of the cemetery that read "_Vandemar Village, 1 Mile -- "_

Silently, the Prince and his growing army left the cemetery and headed towards the sleeping town. Eventually the small dirt road connected with a much wider and paved pathway which would lead directly to the city gates.

As the minutes past, the sun's last rays disappeared behind the tree line giving the procession of undead a harrowing image in the rising mists. A single figured cloaked in black and red appeared in the mist, as if waiting for the undead.

"Greetings great Lord, many of the Cultists are awaiting your arrival in the town up ahead. Our Lord Kel'thuzad told us you would come" the man said.

"Kel'thuzad?! How could he possibly know-" Arthas replied, confused. Before he could finish, the man continued. "Be wary, this town is heavily fortified and you will most likely have to fight to find the acolytes. I shall go to the way point and wait for your return" and with that the Cultist disappeared in a flash of green light.

The undead continued down the road until squat buildings began to appear; it was the outskirts of Vandemar. Suddenly, a human voice called out.

"It's…its Prince Arthas! Arm yourselves!" the voice shouted out.

Screams arose. "The undead have returned!"

A clatter of metal plate and unsheathing swords filled the night air. In the commotion, Arthas spotted a troop of footmen and horsemen most likely stationed in a small town outside Vandemar to act as a preliminary warning force. Now Arthas could see people running, civilians trying to escape.

With naught more than a thought, Arthas sent his minions into battle, as if their minds were his own. He felt an exhilaration as each of his ghouls and skeletal troops slew the living, a feeling that drove him onward. The more death that was created, the stronger he felt.

Arthas charged his mount into a crowd of civilians whom were attempting to reach the river up ahead and cut down many with Frostmourne.

"Mercy milord!" many called, but those whom stopped were slain immediately.

The fallen Prince conjured a sphere or malefic purple magic in his hand, and let it loose into the back of a running footman. As the death coil shot forward, it seared the air in its wake leaving wisps of smoke, and then melted straight through the armor of the footman whom screamed as his body was burned from inside out.

"You bastard! How could you kill your own father?!" a knight shouted at Arthas. The man was clearly in charge, having been giving his surprised troops orders up until this moment when it was clear that his force was being overrun.

"Easily. I drove this blade through his soft throat" Arthas replied monotonously.

The man's face turned curled as if stung by some poison, and his mustache moved tediously from side to side. "You should burn in hell!" the man yelled out before lowering his visor and charging with his sword drawn.

Arthas parried the blow with Frostmourne, and with a single jab impaled the knight whom took his final breath in a pained and sorrowful sob.

The fighting was over almost before it began. With the element of surprise, Arthas' small force had slain many of the town guard whom had been posted at the entrance. Many of the civilians whom had tried to escape had run into the river up ahead which divided the town in two. Without any other option, many had plunged into the icy waters, only to drown instead of facing the claws and blades of the undead.

Now lights came from many of the windows, and the town bell rang. Shouts from incoming guards permeated the night mixed in with the screams of civilians whom now ran for their lives.

"Well then, I guess I'll have to kill anyone whom is not a Cultist" Arthas said with the shadow of a grin on his face.

The Dornland Mountain Pass

The long caravan of refugees stretched out like a quivering snake. Farmers mixed in with merchants and craftsman, who mixed in with nobles and lords, all carrying whatever they could on their backs and in their arms.

"A little further. We're almost there." Cyrus Faim'las spoke in hushed tones as a child began to cry in his vicinity. Most of these people were famished and dehydrated. When the traitorous Prince Arthas had abandoned the fight in Lordaeron for the shores of Northrend the war efforts quickly deteriorated as many of the Alliance's armies were scattered about. Cyrus Faim'las had personally insisted upon each and every one of his superiors that he be allowed to track down the demon Mal'ganis, but his requests were denied, and he was left to trail along with Arthas' troops until the tragedy at Stratholme.

After seeing what had been done to Stratholme, all the feelings of wishing to aid the human Prince Arthas evaporated, leaving nothing but a salted disgust. He wandered for days afterwards, aiding the few survivors, helping them make shelter amongst the ruins of their city, and despairing to the absolute horror that had taken place; an entire populace slain by the hands of their own Prince. Then the Prince had returned again, and slew even his own father! _Patricide! _Cyrus had then lost all faith in the honor of men, but still felt compelled to help them as if they were children.

One night the undead had returned and slew many of the last survivors of Stratholme. Cyrus took with him the few that survived, and began to head south. As their column traveled south, more and more refugees joined in, and soon their camp had grown into a small tent city.

It had been then that his old master, Tarris Phoenixfeather that had told him of the gathering fleet in the south, under the Tirrasian princess Jaina Proudmoore. They would sail to Kalimdor, the forgotten land that surely few humans even knew existed outside of myth. In fact, few Elves themselves could remember such a place, the original home of the Highborne. It had been that that had sparked the light in Cyrus' heart. He would lead these struggling people to Jaina Proudmoore, and find salvation in Kalimdor.

Tarris Phoenixfeather had agreed ardently with him, seeing how the land of Lordaeron was dying with each day. Everything; people, trees, grass, even the soil, was affected by the Plague. Soon there would be nothing left in Lordaeron, especially since the death of the King and the fragmentation of Lordaeron. Of course, humans were not so farsighted as Elvenkind, and many continued their futile and doomed struggles.

Tarris had left Cyrus to lead these people to Port Hope's Rise, where rumor had it that the expedition's fleet was gathering. The old Phoenixfeather was bound for Quel'thalas, to gather as many of his own kin and kind as he could before the storm fully hit. Cyrus could feel it now: the presence of the Burning Legion was so close that it felt as if it literally sat amongst the clouds and stars in the skies for its final assault upon the world.

"A little further, we're so close!" he said louder now, thinking out loud. They would now be within a league of the city. Great mountains arose to either side of the column, marking the break in the Alterac Mountain range that separated north Lordaeron from the southern continent. Cyrus could almost see the great white walls of the port city rising in the distance out of the misty ground, the great banners flying atop its ramparts. He knew that there awaited safety and salvation.

As their march south continued, the more dangerous it became. The Alliance's grip on the land had seemed to slough off, especially after the King's assassination. The last official army troops they had seen were several regiments of footmen accompanied by dwarven demolition teams near the small town of Branmar. That had been almost a week ago.

Almost every night now the column was harassed by undead or bandits whom took advantage of the refugee's helplessness. Sure, there were a few soldiers mixed in here and there, but many were demoralized and had lost their equipment. Many had been killed in the last attack early yesterday morning.

As if on queue, a voice shouted out "The undead have returned!"

Cyrus' mind grew icy. Many of the best warriors he had left were indeed killed in that same attack yesterday. They were helpless now. From the forest to the western base of the mountains, a great flood of ghouls, zombies, and other creatures of the dead rushed forth. The only thing they could do was scatter. Even with his magical abilities, there was no way he could stop such a large force of undead.

Cyrus looked around; mothers holding their crying children with fathers balling their fists in hopeless anger, the people beginning to waver as the undead force came to meet them.

"We need to warn the people to scatter into the mountains!" someone said, to which Cyrus calmly replied "And how sir, would you do that?"

"Damn you, elf! You're as hopeless and pathetic as those idiot nobles fighting each other back up north!" the man replied, hate washing over his stubble ridden face.

Cyrus had seen almost one thousand years of wars, terror, and even witnessed the fall of civilizations, but nothing ever compared to the utter feeling of emptiness he felt. Everything had failed. The world was doomed.

Suddenly, he heard a great cry arise from the mist. Out of the thick dewy grass, riders on horseback suddenly appeared, as if ethereal in the gray mist. Dressed in shining silver, blue, white, and green, the riders slashed through the undead with ease upon their barded steeds.

As quickly as the undead surprise attack had appeared, it melted away amongst the charge of the knights. Cyrus slowly realized the colors of both Lordaeron and Kul Tiras amongst the banners of the knights.

"Great sires and rescuers, from what army do you hail?" Cyrus called out as the riders circled back toward the column.

"We serve none other than Jaina Proudmoore herself! We are prideful knights in the service of the Lady whom will lead us to salvation!" one of the knights, obviously the leader, spoke out. His horse was adorned with gold plated armor, and great laurels encircled his helmet.

"You serve the Lady!? Then that must mean we are close to Hope's Rise, yes?" Cyrus suddenly burst out.

"Why, good elf, you could see Port Hope's Rise from here on a sunny day, but not through this dreadful mist! My men and I were on patrol, for every day refugees such as you pour into our town, and every day the undead on our borders grow in number" the leader knight spoke.

"Thank the Light!" Cyrus let loose a great sigh of relief.

"Let us escort you to the gates of the city. I'm sure you people are tired" the knight then called out. Salvation had indeed met them this day.

The Grace Fields, central Lordaeron, 6th Army field of operations

Valdar Justax sighed heavily. His hand repeated the rhythmic motion of moving the mageweave cloth up and down the blade to clean it. He had witnessed war and endured its hardships. Now a veteran and a heart heavy with guilt and sin, there was no where to go but upwards. He had received word a few weeks ago that his family's manor house had been burned to the ground. His mother had been taken by the Plague, and then rose and turned on her husband, his father. Soirich Justax slew the reanimated corpse of his wife, and then killed himself in the shame of his act.

From fighting orcs to fighting undead, war had changed. Such acts as the ones his father had committed were now commonplace, even accepted rather than gruesome or brutal. In this time, even the darkest deeds were overlooked to fight the common enemy.; even those of the nobles whom had ripped Lordaeron's western provinces apart into civil war.

The last Valdar had heard news from the west was that the Plague had infected the capitol city, and that Brigadier General Garithos' independent garrison had pulled out of the city.

"Damn Garithos and all those nobles whom would fight amongst themselves rather than aid us" Valdar had heard frontline soldiers say many times. However, Garithos had built up quite a reputation for himself, his ability to take the credit for other's work quite astounding. In the villages and even among many troops, he was a hero, even if he had left the front to fight for his lands back west.

When the Plague had begun to take its hold on the provinces in the Tirisfal Glades, many of the nobles had agreed on a temporary ceasefire, but their bickering and the complete destruction that the Scourge had rained down was weakening Lordaeron's ability to protect itself. Soldiers had trickled in front distant places such as Stormwind and Dun Morogh, but without the great armies of foreign countries to aid them, Valdar feared the worst.

"Captain Justax!" a familiar voice called out.

"Aye, what is it Ghent?" Valdar replied, looking up from his task.

"Sir, we're preparing to move out. Our unit is being called to the front. I think we're going to try the breakout" Thorek Ghent said. Ghent had been one of Valdar's first friends in the unit, one whom had stuck with him through thick and thin.

"I see. Rally the boys, and tell the squires to prepare our mounts" Valdar then commanded. Valdar had long since come into the command of his own regiment, the strains of war taking their toll on the officer corps.

Valdar had come to know many men in his regiment by face and name. There was Parken Grimtongue, a big man from the pumpkin farms of Tirisfal, Vesar Erus, the regiment's greatest rider, Banton Moulder, a joker and good storyteller around the fire, along with Syman Shoemaker, a craftsman from the cities and many others. But then again, there were those many whom had died in these past few months, some good men, some not so much.

Noises from the front echoed into the small glade that he and his men were ordered to take their rest in. It was morning, and the gray sky above foreboded a snow. The cavalrymen under his command began to awake from their thick sleep.

In the distance, Valdar spotted the horses that served as mounts for his regiment. They were all painfully thin, ribs clearly visible from lack of nutrition. In fact, the entire 6th Army was hungry. Even though they had won great victories in the past two months in the Grace Fields, the numbers of the undead were just too much. By mid-autumn, their entire army had either been splintered or surrounded.

Hopefully today would be the day they broke out of the encircling Scourge forces that had for so long pinned them against the mountains. Valdar trusted the commander of this army, Lord General Volsung. In fact, Volsung was probably one of the Alliance's most competent commanders, but nothing he had ever fought in his long years of experience could match up to the horror of the Scourge.

As the cavalry mounted and found their standards and line-commanders, they formed into the classical three line echelon which consisted of nearly thirty horsemen in each column. The front line would use pikes and lances, whereas the second would have lances at the ready to mop up remaining enemies and the third would be prepared to draw blades on command.

In their three line echelon, the regiment made its way past the field hospital which lay in among a small copse of trees, and then past the main camp area which stretched out into a city of tents.

Up ahead in the brown fields were the back of the front lines, where artillery pieces were placed and the troops moved in great squares of armor to and fro. Valdar could feel the familiar cold sweat soak into his undercloth, the stiffness of his hands and numbness of his mind setting in; all precursors to fighting: fear of dying, fear of suffering, fear for the loss of his friends and subordinates. But somehow he and his men pushed on.

Soon, out of the acres of brown grass, the battle to break out of the Grace Fields came into vision.; a great host of men, many thousands strong, spreading out into the forest of grass mirrored by the Scourge's lumbering army seemingly coming from the horizon.

"Knights, at the ready!" Valdar shouted out. The line-commanders repeated his shout down the ranks. The lances went down, parallel to the ground. Nearing the ongoing battle, more cavalry came to join the growing flanking force. Suddenly, the great force of knights stopped. It was now that they waited for the signal to advance and crush the Scourge's right wing. Minutes passed, each one an eternity. Men murmured prayers to the Light, others silently observing the battle. Suddenly, a great bolt of lightning shot up from the battlefield. It was the signal which one of the battle mages had been ordered to give.

The great wave of cavalry advanced, hundreds of horsemen now rushing forward to the heat of battle. Screams went up, and Valdar shut his visor, now only able to see through the thin slits of light in his helmet.

The familiar feel of a splintering lance sent a sting through his arm, as if it was being pulled out of its socket. Valdar felt his horse jump over what must have been his victim, and then suddenly come to a halt. Squinting through the visor, he saw a massive abomination, one more disgusting and imposing than many others that he had seen. The abomination and Valdar both spotted each other, and for a moment the field was quiet around the two. Then, springing into action, Valdar threw down his broken lance and drew his sword.

"RAAAAAAH!" he let loose a great cry as his horse sped toward the hulking abomination. In an instant though, the seemingly slow grotesque swiped at his mount's legs, slicing its front limbs clean off. The horse fell to the ground with a crash, throwing Valdar between the abomination's feet. Before Valdar could get to his feet, the abomination stabbed downward with one of its great-weapons. Rolling to the side, Valdar narrowly avoided being cut in half at the torso. As the creature attempted to free its weapon from the ground, Valdar swung his blade in a sweeping motion, embedding it deep within his enemy's arm. Putrid blood spilled out and the abomination gave a great howl of pain. It threw a punch from one of its other arms, which hit Valdar square in the chestplate, caving it in. Ironically unable to free his own blade, and still staggering from the blow, Valdar stumbled and fell again. The abomination sliced with another one of its four arms, stabbing Valdar in the ribcage with a large sickle.

The sickle tore through Valdar's armor and flesh, leaving a great, bleeding gash in his torso. The knight let loose a moan, now unable to breathe due to his dented chestplate and deep wound. The world began to blacken as the abomination scooped up Valdar and began to crush him with its unnatural power. Inside the knight's body, he could feel bones begin to crack.

Memories suddenly flooded back to Valdar. His third birthday, the first time he saw a wizard cast magic, his acceptance into knighthood.

"This is it" he thought, strangely calm. His helm fell off, the gold and silver plated head protection falling to the ground with a clunk.

But suddenly, the abomination dropped the wounded knight, whom fell beside his helmet in a great pile. All around were the dead, both from the Alliance and the Scourge. But several riders, perhaps half a dozen, rode around the abomination, pricking it with their long lances. Valdar suddenly felt strong hands pulling him backwards, towards safety.

Reality wavered, dreams passing before his eyes followed by short, convulsive images of the present. One moment he was being pulled back from the front by two of his knights, the next he was eating rainbow trout along the banks of the river Averas. Glancing to the sides, he saw Syman Shoemaker and Banton Moulder tying a new linen bandage around his abdomen, which quickly turned red with blood. They tried to speak to him but their words were muffled, distant, amidst a sea of pain and delirium.

The world faded once more, and when Valdar came to this time, the face of an angel hovered above his. A beautiful, womanly face, caring and compassionate replaced a wet towel that had been sitting on his head.

"So you are awake, milord Captain" the woman said.

Valdar jolted upwards, looking about. He was not in the field hospital. In fact, it looked more like a farm.

"Where are my men!? What happened to the battle?" he exclaimed quickly.

"The battle…" the woman trailed off. She seemed young, probably a little younger than himself. "For now your battle is over. You're lucky to be alive, Captain"

Valdar struggled for a moment as the nurse lowered him back into his cot, but went limp with exhaustion.

"I'm in the field hospital, no?" he then asked.

"No, you are in my home. Rest for now. Your wound was a grievous one, but if taken care of properly, you may yet recover" the lady replied, now helping the unconscious man beside Valdar. Valdar looked down for a moment on his now bare chest and noticed a long line of stitches where the sickle had cut through him.

"Did you do this?" the wounded cavalier asked.

"Yes, I'm trained in healing arts" the young nurse answered.

"I see…thank you, ma'am. I owe you my life, most likely" Valdar said courteously.

"It was nothing, Captain. I hate to see suffering and death, two things that are far too common in our lands these days"

"Indeed. You may call me Valdar, if I am not being impolite" he then blurted, regretting the words immediately. "_Fool!_" he scolded himself. _"She is a nurse in a field hospital and I am just a wounded soldier!" _He expected her to scoff, or ignore his comment.

Instead she nodded, and said "Very well then, Valdar. My name is Ellena, pleased to meet you"

Vandemar Village, the next morning

Another human crumpled to the ground as Frostmourne sliced through her body. Arthas enjoyed quenching the blade's thirst for blood as if it were his own. The town was now silent. Bodies littered the streets. In Vandemar, over one hundred of the most powerful Cultists had hid, each greeting the coming of the prophetic Arthas with great enthusiasm.

A small fire burned over by the town hall where looters had attempted to take advantage of the chaos before fleeing. The river by the village ran red with blood, and the undead whom had been summoned to aide the Prince now roamed mindlessly, many of the zombies eating the raw flesh of the newly dead.

Arthas now bored with hunting down the few last survivors called out to the wind "Tichondrious, the deed is done. The Cultists in this town have been assembled"

"Well done Death Knight. The Lich King and I have watched your progress, and are pleased. The Cult is nearly assembled." The voice of Tichondrious emanated from all sides.

The shadows from the alley ways began to pull together and coalesce, pulling and grinding into the shape of the dreadlord.

"Lordaeron lies in ruins. What good are these Cultists to us now?" Arthas asked.

"They will aid you in your next undertaking." The dreadlord replied, now fully embodied.

"And what's that?"

"You will go to Andorhol and recover the remains of the Cultist's former master, the necromancer Kel'thuzad" the dreadlord then said "As is the will of the Lich King"


	16. Chapter 15: A Wrenching Fight

**Chapter 15: A Wrenching Fight**

Outskirts of the Andorhol, one week later

A cold breeze kicked up piles of fallen leaves that now covered the untended King's Road. The sky had set to a purplish-gray, the dusk upon Lordaeron. Along the road moved the army of the dead, the Scourge. In its fore were acolytes, chanting dark blessings and prayers. Behind them rolled great contraptions; meatwagons, terrifying engines with spiked teeth at their bow and a great catapult behind. Each and every one of the meatwagons were different in some way or another by small detail, but they all had the same effect. Further down the line marched the endless columns of ghouls, abominations, skeletal warriors armed with all assortments of weapons, wraiths, wights, and all kinds of unholy beings summoned to serve the Scourge.

Arthas watched as the Scourge marched past. The more people he killed and destruction he sowed, the easier it was to control his newfound death knight powers. As the undead continued mindlessly down the road, Arthas broke from the concentration he had held so intently. Suddenly he realized, that this army was headed towards the place where he had once fought Kel'thuzad in what seemed a lifetime ago. In a way, it was ironic, but Arthas felt nothing of the matter; he was empty of hypocrisy, liberated from confusion, cast of love. Nothing mattered but what the voice of the Lich King said anymore.

The former paladin glanced at the great runeblade that hung in its sheath from his girdle. Frostmourne had granted him power that he had never thought possible, and enabled him to take his revenge, and that was what he wanted most.

_Uther is probably there. And will fight him if he is. _Arthas thought. That though, once perverse, now seemed curiously relishing. It was what the Lich King wanted. Arthas cared not for the Silver Hand that would be surrounding the grave of Kel'thuzad, keeping watch over the necromancer's remains to make sure he did not propagate terror anymore. Simply, if they got in the way of the death knight, they would die.

Of Kel'thuzad's remains, Arthas had wanted to raise them using a few petty spells of binding, but the more knowledgeable and experienced necromancers had told him that a soul of Kel'thuzad's power could not be returned to this world by simple magics. The remains would have to be transported to a prime nexus of ley-energies.

"The undead are here!" a call arose; ahead, through some trees, stood two guard towers surrounded by numerous camp tents. Men milled about preparing for combat. This was probably the guard station over the mass graveyard where Kel'thuzad's body had been dumped months ago.

With the whim of Arthas, the front lines of the undead broke ranks and rushed forward to do battle. The catapults, easily in range, halted and began to prepare to fire their salvos. Intermittent hail from archers fell from both sides, but the humans had too few. As their lines broke under the weight of the undead, a figure dressed in black and silver plate with a flowing orange cloak with a rune that signified the Champions of Peace chapter of the Silver Hand crushed a fresh ghoul's head with his great hammer.

Arthas quickly headed toward the paladin. Riding at a swift gallop on his skeletal horse, Arthas swung Frostmourne at the iron bearded Knight of the Silver Hand, whom, with incredible reaction time for his age, parried to blow and let the sword slide down the shaft of his hammer, avoiding damage to himself and his weapon.

The paladin suddenly locked onto Arthas' eyes, and all the battle seemed to disappear for him. Instead of the hate or fear that usually accompanied those stares, this man, Gavinrad the Dire, Arthas remembered, looked at him with urgency.

"Arthas! Stop this madness before its too late!" he cried out, desperately.

"Stand aside, brother. I've come to collect some old bones and I don't wish to be disturbed"

"I can't believe this. I can't let you do this Arthas! Realize what you've become! Wake up!" Gavinrad yelled, exasperated.

"I am more awake than I have ever been, brother" Arthas sneered, attempting to use his former status to incite the paladin. Instead, his face turned to stone.

"Burn the graveyard, dig up Kel'thuzad's body and destroy it before this monster can take it for his own designs" he then yelled out to his soldiers. Without speaking another word, Arthas galloped back toward the paladin, preparing to finish the fight.

The hammer, faintly glowing blue, raced toward the oncoming death knight, whose own weapon was at the ready. Wind lashed at Arthas' face and the world beyond the paladin grew to a blur.

The final strike: the rhythm of the mount, the stench of fresh blood and the fragrance of spices from the camp, a silent calm shared between two combatants, dirt flying in the air from shifting boots and pounding hooves, hair flowing with movement, and all in an instant, it was over.

Arthas pulled on the undead steed's reins instinctively, Frostmourne still extended from its strike. Blood dripped from the sword. Behind the death knight, the paladin stood utterly still as a plume of blood erupted from his ruptured shoulder. The cut ran far deeper than that however, slicing from his trapezius muscle through his collar bone and deep into his right lung, crushing many organs beside it. The paladin dropped to his knees, and then fell face first.

Small gasps still escaped the paladin as Arthas rode back to confirm his kill.

"Feel honored: You were the first paladin brother I have yet killed" Arthas uttered as he passed the dying man.

The undead swarmed into the graveyard, easily overwhelming the meager guardsmen. After all, on the road leading back towards western Lordaeron, most of the Scourge was following.

Arthas strode casually into the graveyard, the stench of decomposing bodies just as putrid in it as it had been in the Scourge's long column. He quickly found the necromancer's body, which had been dug up by the slain footmen and doused in torch fluid in a vain attempt to burn it. The remains were naught more than brown bones stretched over rotting cloth with patches of dried flesh.

"Come along necromancer, the powers that you once served have need of you again" Arthas spoke as a meat wagon approached from behind. The lumbering beast would carry Kel'thuzad's remains to wherever the Lich King needed.

"_Told you, my death would mean little_" a familiar voice seemed to chant. A haze descended upon the graveyard, blotting out the distance.

"What the…am I hearing ghosts now?" Arthas wondered out loud. Was this the depth of his madness?

"_It is I, Kel'thuzad. I was right about you, Prince_ _Arthas_" the voice replied. From the shadows of the mausoleum of the graveyard an apparition of Kel'thuzad appeared.

"It doesn't matter if you were. You are needed again"

"_Yes…I heard the calls, even from beyond this very grave_" Kel'thuzad said.

Arthas and the necromancer stared at each other while ghouls and acolytes loaded the terrible ruins onto the meat wagon. As Arthas began to walk away, he found that the ghost of Kel'thuzad followed him wherever he went. But when he neared Tichondrious where they were supposed to meet, the apparition disappeared.

The voice of Kel'thuzad spoke once again, like that of the Lich King, though his head. "_Tell him nothing. Only you can hear me. The dreadlords are the Lich King's jailors! I will tell you all, when I walk this world again" _Arthas wondered if anyone else could hear the voice.

"It took you long enough. These remains are badly decomposed. They will never survive the trip to Quel'thalas" Tichondrious grumbled as he checked the remains in the cornfield outside town. With the sudden revelation from Kel'thuzad, Arthas was much more suspicious about the dreadlord and his reason.

"Quel'thalas?" the Prince asked, surprised.

"Yes, only the supreme energies of the high elves Sunwell can bring Kel'thuzad back to life" Tichondrious explained "For a human of Kel'thuzad's caliber, the petty ley magics of this region would only hinder the resurrection"

"Then what must be done?"

"You must steal a very special urn from the paladin's keeping. Place the necromancer's remains in it and they will be well protected for the journey" Tichondrious spoke.

"Then I will be off" Arthas said. Riding away from the main column, he and several hundred followers traveled down a small side road until they encountered an undead outpost. The outpost would serve as Arthas' base in the campaign against the paladins. Their buildings, strange and gothic, were teleported from Northrend itself through trans-dimensional magics and would serve as body harvesting centers, resource collection, and strengthening the ambient magic.

From what he was told from the myriad undead in the area, there were two more entrenchments commanded by the paladin chapters in the area surrounding Andorhol.

They would all be destroyed.

Port Hope's Rise

Jaina Proudmoore, Princess of Kul Tiras, student of Antodias the Archmage, leader of a growing bedraggled group of refugees whom continued to pour in from all sides each day.

Lordaeron was in no condition to complain if a few hundred of its soldiers aligned themselves with her every week. Surely it fought on, but there was little government structure left. Calia Menethil had fled the capitol when civil war broke out between the nobles and hadn't been heard of since. At around that time, the Plague began to infect Lordegarde and all went to chaos. Now it seemed in the north that it was every man, woman, and child for themselves.

"My lady" Erken Kristoff's voice echoed off the drab walls of the room "the Lords need a decision"

Jaina looked up from her neat pile of parchment that signified the logistics and supplies that they had gathered in the port city. Four lords from Lordaeron, three from Kul Tiras (including herself), another three from Stromgarde, and one from Gilneas. The elf Cyrus Faim'las of Quel'thalas was seated here as well. In fact, only emissaries from Stormwind and Ironforge were missing.

"Gentlemen" she began, pushing through the cotton in her mouth "For three months we have gathered your subjects and willing souls to our, uh…cause. We won't have to wait much longer. But we will wait, until we can take everyone we possibly can. We represent the Alliance and we need to make sure that we continue to uphold its ideals. We can't just abandon these people simply because of your _impatience_" Jaina suddenly silenced herself, aware that she may have insulted her guests. Her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. "Excuse me my lords, I am sorry for the outburst, but I will not condemn additional hundreds or even thousands to death by leaving early. We shall depart at the last possible moment, and that word is final"

Jaina stood up and walked toward the door, her rich purple cloak flowing behind her. She heard some of the lords muttering and grumbling, and heard a single comment having to do with women not being able to think straight. She paused for a moment, but decided it wasn't best to pick a fight.

Escaping from the claustrophobic gazes of the lords was a relief. She quickly found a window and threw it open, taking deep breaths of fresh air. As soon as she had begun to regain her composure, she heard footsteps behind her. The sorceress whirled around to find Kristoff looking worriedly at her.

"Are you feeling well, my lady?" he inquired.

"Yes, yes, fine" Jaina replied, still flustered. "Just…its hard to lead people, Kristoff. Even harder when we don't even know where we're going after so many promises of taking them to some kind of promised land"

"The elf, Cyrus, tells me that his mentor, Tarris, shall return from Quel'thalas with any maps he can" Kristoff reminded her.

"Yes, but, all we _truly _know is that Kalimdor lies west of the Maelstrom. There may be some old, dusty terrain maps, but if we can't even get to land then what good will they do us?"

"As much good as they can, my lady" Kristoff said, trying to cheer her up. "In any case, I think its awfully queer that these elves are helping us as much as they are. They are usually so disconnected with humans, and seem to loath the past they had before they came to this land"

"Survival; it's as simple as that. Cyrus is just gifted in seeing the facts. He knows that if Lordaeron was ravaged as much as it was, then Quel'thalas could be next. The Scourge inches south and east every day. It won't be long till Stromgarde itself comes under attack. And there is the matter of…" her voice trailed off. An uncomfortable moment fell upon the two. Jaina trusted Kristoff, enough to tell him about the Prophet, but not enough about what he had last said to her.

"_The skies will burn, and the Scourge, which has been but a harbinger, will bow to their true masters. The Burning Legion has come for its due" _

The Prophet had revealed to her the truth. The Scourge was used as a prelude for the invasion that would come soon enough. Jaina had sent desperate pleas to her master Antodias, whom had only sent one letter in reply to scold her for listening to the 'raving madman'. He had ordered that she return to Dalaran immediately, but that was one more thing on a long list she was not inclined to obeying. Too much had been done now to step back.

"…Arthas? Are you worried that he might target Hope's Rise?" Kristoff asked, again with the same look of exasperation.

"No, it's too far out of his way. That's why I chose it, it'll be safe for now, that it will. And one more thing Kristoff" Jaina said.

"Yes, milady?"

"Don't mention Arthas around me" the sorcerers said icily.

Before Kristoff could manage a nod, a horn blew out in the harbor that the window overlooked. A great galley was sailing in on the shining sea. Its great, white sails were outstretched in the prime winds, and it left a wake upon the blue bay. Atop the crow's nest flew a flag: a golden anchor with a vicious hawk surrounded by thrashing sea-green waves emblazoned on a field of white.

"That is my father's flag!" Jaina exclaimed, feeling her hopes race downward in a deafening crash.

The two slowly made their way outside and awaited the gang plank to be laid down for the Tirrassian ship. No doubt it was her father, come to take her from this new mission of hers. Had Antodias sent for him? No, he was far too busy trying to analyze the Plague.

Gallantly strutting from the deck of the ship was a man dressed in the royal colors of Kul Tiras, a breastplate with the hawk and anchor, with a pompous blue hat with a large plume, a face tanned and weathered with the wind of the oceans, and with eyes as blue as the port's waters; Tandred Proudmoore, Prince of Kul Tiras.

Jaina's jaw dropped in surprise and relief.

"Sister!" he cried happily as he spotted her, "Its been too long"

"Tandred!" Jaina replied, hugging her brother. After their reunion, the two, followed by Kristoff, moved inside the castle keep that watched over the port town.

"Well, down to business. Father is ordering you to return to Kul Tiras at once. You have not only disobeyed him, but Archmage Antodias! What were you thinking Jaina, gathering these people here? Are you trying to make your own army?" Tandred spoke vehemently, his own confusion breaking through the barrier of their first meeting in years.

"Gathering an army? No…" Jaina replied, trying to formulate some kind of plan in her mind.

"We are gathering refugees, so that if needs be we can transport them somewhere safer, say, Kul Tiras or Dun Morogh. It is an awful war Tandred. You haven't seen the things that the common people see these days" Kristoff spoke from the shadows, giving Jaina the excuse she needed.

"Yes, these people need help. Many have gone without food or water, traveling across half of their own country to reach some kind of safe haven. It's a battle unlike any other out there Tandred; the Scourge are everywhere" Jaina said. The curtains from the open windows rustled slightly as a breeze kicked up. Tandred was silent for a few moments.

The prince slowly nodded. "I've heard the horror stories. Father is working himself ill to get help to Lordaeron in any way he can. Many of our best ships have been sent to protect the coasts and transport troops to the mainland, but there's only so much we can do. Its been a long time since you left, Jaina. The homeland isn't as secure as it was when we were children. Bandits roam the countryside, merciless fish-men from the deeps burn whole towns, and with the fear of the Plague making its way in…well, there's just not much happiness shall we say"

Jaina breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Though Tandred was a Proudmoore and next in line for the throne, he was not as sharp as his father. Sometimes, Jaina guiltily wondered if he was fit for the crown. Her father would have seen through that petty ruse easily.

"Well, when I return, I shall tell father of what you say. You are kind hearted, Jaina; always have been. I believe father will understand what you are doing here. As for myself, I am not bound for such a fate as sitting helplessly in the court or aiding refugees" Tandred continued.

"What? What's happening?" Jaina asked.

"I'm bound for war" her brother replied, pulling his hat smugly over his eyebrows. "Father has given me permission to gather the 5th and 18th fleets. As I said, with the problems we've been facing at home, that's all we can afford to send for now. We'll be off to Lordaeron by a fortnight's end if the sea stays calm. The forces of the sea-king shall aid Lordaeron with all our ability, to whatever end it takes us"

Ruins of Andorhol 

Three additional chapters of the Silver Hand had been placed in and around the ruins of Andorhol. When news of Brother Gavin's fate came, Uther knew that his waylaid apprentice had come.

"Damn it all, and now he has Kel'thuzad's body. Who knows what he can do now" the young paladin, Jorad Mace, sputtered. He had followed Uther since the events at Stratholme: obedient, strong, and intelligent, he was a man of great potential, even in these times.

Uther looked lifelessly over at Jorad and simply nodded. He was tired, so tired. In his hands, strapped around his body with a chain of thorium was a magical urn that carried the ashes of the late King Terenas. When news of the King's death came, Uther immediately left the front in an effort to hold back the tidal wave of idiocy that came from the Chamber of Nobles, especially the dogma that Jaeger Lorydist preached. When he came to the city, the rebel factions had already been pushed out or surrendered to the royalist forces whom fought for the missing Calia Menethil. He had then volunteered to personally guard the ashes of King Terenas and watch over the graveyard where Kel'thuzad had been buried in Andorhol. However, not long after he left word came that the capitol city itself had been infected by the Plague and was falling into chaos.

Gathering the Knights of the Silver Hand, Uther had attempted to find a cure for the Plague by purging the victims with the Holy Light, but it only seemed to incinerate the flesh of those already condemned to its horrible properties. Searching for an answer to the disease that washed over the land and gathering those men whom had been scattered from their main armies became his mission.

But then the Scourge had come. Assaulted on all sides, his force was thrown back into the hinterlands and then into the ruins Andorhol. Great battles had been waged on this land for many months now, and little was left alive, save a few hardy bushes and shrubs.

The paladins still had fire in them, but Uther felt drained after Arthas had returned and slew his own father. He had so ardently defended the Prince, even after he abandoned the fight in Lordaeron for the shores of Northrend, saying that he was letting his emotions guide him. Yet when the Prince returned, he was changed. At his back he had the armies of the undead, destroying literally everything in his way. He had pinned his honor to that of Arthas, and thus threw it into oblivion.

Most of the strength of the paladins was gathered here, mixed in with a conjunction of men from a dozen armies that had meshed together during the chaos of the autumn. Still though, it was a weak force; one likely not to be able to resist the combined might of the Scourge now bearing down on them.

"Prepare for battle" he said monotonously. Dirt caked his leather boots, and his cape was torn and frayed. The long months of fighting in the wilderness had taken its toll on all his troops.

The Silver Hand gathered here had been backed into a corner, but the defenders of justice, humanity were ready for their stand. In front of them lay the King's Road upon which an army could travel with ease, followed by Andorhol, which was a sprawling mess of jagged rubble, and then behind them were the mountains. There would be no running now.

Hefting his warhammer, he slowly made his way over to the bridge with several footmen. This was the most aft position. His plan was to bloody the black Prince's forces enough to draw him into single combat, and…

"Sire! The Scourge is over the second bridge! They're heading this way!" a cry arose from Jorad. Uther shook his head. How long had he been out of touch with reality? The battle had already begun, and as it seemed, almost finished. Where had his mind been these past long minutes?

"I see. Jorad, I want you to take this note and deliver it to General Volsung and his 6th army. In it is my will and the General's promotion to the rank of High General. Highlord Morgraine is to take the Silver Hand under his guidance. Should I fall here, it falls to those two to defend Lordaeron" Uther said, pulling out a torn piece of paper from within his sleeve.

Volsung was the most competent of the candidates for High General. Being a brilliant tactician and clear thinker he was able to solve problems as one would elvish riddles. And Highlord Mograine…he was a paladin of incredible, and nearly unrivaled power and intellect. Mograine was second in command to Uther, and had served in that position since the Second War. Uther trusted Mograine with his life.

"Sire?" Jorad asked in exasperation "I'm being sent…away from the battle?"

"Yes. Son, I trust you with this letter that may carry the future of Lordaeron. That is enough justification for anyone" Uther replied, then harshly yelled "Go!"

Jorad, sullen, backed away and disappeared. Now surrounded by none other than a few footmen, Uther prepared for a fight that would decide the future. Ghouls, lumbering skeletons, and other foul creatures spread like a wave around Uther and his body guards. Paladins unleashed sealed holy energies, and veteran footmen hacked at the enemy. Blood began to puddle on the dry soil making the ground black and sticky.

A gap in the fighting opened up, the minions of the Scourge moving aside to make way from the bridge that led back to the main bases of the army. Staring straight down the narrow opening, Uther saw flames rising from the castle and camps of his defeated troops. Movement was abound on the other side of the river: undead. At the head of them, was a man with hair as white as snow, and a face as pale as milk, though far less fair as it sounded. It was craggy and stubble strewn. His armor was as black as the darkest night, and in his hand he carried a horrid looking sword.

"Arthas" Uther half hissed.

Andorhol

The strongest seated paladins of the Silver Hand had been the only true obstacle to his goal, each of them giving Arthas a fight he didn't expect; before him stood one single survivor of the battle: Sage Truthbearer.

"_I can't believe that we ever called you brother. I knew it was a mistake to accept a spoiled Prince into our order. You've made a mockery of the Silver Hand"_ Zachariah Lightsworn screamed before Frostmourne impaled his heart.

"_Vile betrayer! You are not even fit to even carry your father's name. Why Uther vouched for you is beyond me. You've stripped him of his honor by throwing yours to the winds. You deserve a gruesome death, boy!" _Ballador the Bright had cursed him, right before Frostmourne cut clean his head from his shoulders.

"Light have mercy on you. You're betrayal has broken Uther's heart, boy. He would have given his life for yours in a second, and _this_ is how you repay his loyalty?" Sage Truthbearer now said. He was the final paladin before Uther, whom had trapped himself on a small peninsula across the bridge that led from town.

Truthbearer sported a beard much like Uther's, though it was as white as clouds and as billowy as well. What once might have been jovial eyes now hung in dark sacks that emanated pure hatred. He was said to be one of the Order's strongest, but Arthas had never fought him before.

"Who said I would give my life for his? Certainly, the feeling is not reciprocal. Whoever told you so must've been a jester" Arthas rebuked.

Sage Truthbearer let loose a great roar and charged the death knight. Arthas ducked as the paladin's hammer swung where his head had been a split second earlier. The Prince brought Frostmourne up to meet the hammer, and pushed heavily, overpowering the older man. He then charged the blade with a magical black lightning that dissolved the hammer's bronze grip and Sage's breastplate and chainmail.

"Gulc!" Truthbearer gurgled as he fell to the ground. In disgust Arthas spat on the man's twitching corpse.

"Not even worth stopping for" he muttered.

Re-mounting Arthas rode in silence past the corpses of freshly slain knights, footmen, high elves, dwarves, along with all those whom had gotten in the way of the Scourge. A ruined castle burned nearby sending the smell of burned flesh through the air, mingling with that of blood and decomposing bodies.

The final bridge was just up ahead. Uther would be waiting there. Throwing his arms aside in mental command, the undead sea parted and made way for him. Slowly he made his way towards the final fight.

Arthas spotted Uther standing amidst the undead wave, surrounded only by a few of his strongest warriors left alive. His armor was immaculate as always, the silver greaves engraved with golden lining, great golden shoulder pads, leggings of thorium alloy, and a breastplate of the same material but with a great L upon a lion tabard above it. The white and gold cloak he wore flowed in the wind. In his hands was _Dawnshiver, _a weapon so ancient that its origin was not remembered. However, it was a feared mace that had resounded through history since the times of Arathi. It's hilt was made of mithril and its head was a material called adamantine, which had not even been scratched since its forging, or so the legends said.

Yet the face of Uther seemed much older now, paler and more drawn. It had been how long since Arthas last saw him? Four months? Five? He slid down from the undead mare that bore him.

"You're father ruled this land for seventy years and you've ground it to dust in a matter of days" Uther said in a low voice as his former apprentice approached.

"Very dramatic Uther. Give me the urn and I'll make sure you die quickly" Arthas replied, edging closer.

"The urn holds your father's ashes Arthas! What?! Were you hoping to piss on them one last time before you left his kingdom to rot?" Uther's eyes were bulging.

"Hm hm ha ha" Arthas chuckled "I didn't know what it held. Nor does it matter. I'll take what I came for one way or another"

The two stood against each other, with the backdrop of battle circling them. Arthas saw tears well in Uther's eyes.

"Have at thee" Uther challenged, his face turning to stone.

The two suddenly launched themselves at one another, the grass crushed and dirt pluming into clouds with each of their heavy footsteps. Arthas' hair streamed in the air, and Uther chanted incomprehensibly some prayer. Frostmourne seemed to revel thought of the battle about to take place. The eyes on the skull of the hilt wept icy steam and the blade itself gave off a mystical, bluish color.

The hammer of Uther on the other hand burned a deep orange, flames erupting from its core. The air around Uther seemed to glow with a fierce golden aura, the Paladin's eyes suddenly bursting into holy fire. Done with his incantation, a great blessing came upon the Lightbringer, surrounding him for a second with words of wisdom and might, each one shimmering the deepest sapphire.

With a great cry, the two weapons struck! Purple magic was flung from the two opposing incantations on the weapons, opposite holy and shadow magics mixing and grinding. The ground beneath Uther the Lightbringer and Arthas Menethil shuddered and split, unable to hold back such violent magic.

The two were pushed from each other as the enchanting on their weapons dissolved one another. As soon as the unstoppable wave of magic had dissipated, the two rushed at one another again. Arthas swung high with Frostmourne.

"_I have a longer reach than him_" Arthas noted, but Uther backed away from the open swing, and pushed off the broken ground in an effort to smash the death knight's legs. His weapon just barely touched the Prince's leg plating, but just enough to scratch it. With Uther open, Arthas sent down Frostmourne trying to cleave Uther in half whom was bent over, but just before the blow struck his weapon bounced off an invisible wall.

"What?!" Arthas exclaimed, regaining his balance.

Uther stood straight, surrounded by a faintly pulsating bubble.

"A divine shield? A pity for you it only lasts a few seconds" Arthas said.

Uther paid no heed to his words, and reached for his girdle as fast as a falling star, grabbing a hammer which buzzed with electrical magic as soon as his gauntlet curled the gavel.

In an instant, the small gavel was flying toward Arthas as fast as the lightning that surrounded it. Unable to dodge the attack, Arthas held Frostmourne up to protect him. The broad side of the runeblade bore the attack, though the force was so great that it threw Arthas back several steps before falling harmlessly to the ground.

As Arthas slowly glanced from behind the blade at Uther he saw the old man panting.

"A pity, Uther. If you were a few years younger you might've taken me down with that" Arthas snickered.

"I'll show you the justice of the Light yet, boy!" Uther replied. The air around his body became wavy, as if filled with great heat. He was releasing another seal.

The death knight was suddenly surrounded by a grouping of green lines and polygons, each topped with a menacing eye. Arthas seemed to almost disappear from Uther's vision, his unholy powers boosting his speed and strength. Frostmourne came up behind Uther in a blur, but almost as quickly Uther had realized and countered by stepping forward and twisting to meet the blow with his own hammer. The two pushed at each other in a contest of strength, but suddenly the holy fire in Uther's eyes exploded and he roared mightily, throwing Arthas back again.

"It seems I failed you, Arthas. I don't know where I went wrong, but I know I have some fault in this" Uther spoke, voice dripping with guilt as heavy as iron.

"Good. Knowing that every waking moment of your life is a living hell will only be a perfect setting for your death" the Prince said dryly. Dawnshivermet Frostmourne again and again, each warrior giving his all in the vicious melee.

Unbeknownst to Uther, his allies, the paladins and soldiers whom had been with since the beginning of the battle were being overwhelmed. Unable to hold back the advance of the Scourge, they moved closer and closer in together in a circle, with Arthas and Uther in the middle.

Arthas sliced clean through a three foot thick tree as Uther attempted to regain his footing that he had lost in a previous clash. Frostmourne jabbed forward and impaled Uther's left leg, but the stab was incomplete and off balance.

"Let me tell you, Uther, when I slid the shaft of this sword through my father's throat…it was exhilarating! And your own pain shall be legendary!" Arthas hissed.

"Damn you" Uther said his voice almost mute in pain. A trickle of blood ran from the gash in his temple and profusely from under his left leg-plate, but the pain was all in his heart. "The world is falling apart around us and all you can do is boast about your patricide. It sickens me to look at you"

Arthas himself was not without injury. The upper right of his arm was seared below the plating, and the same side's shoulder plate was crushed from the massive force of Dawnshiver.

Behind the Lightbringer, a scream arose from a footman whom was jumped by a ghoul which ravenously tore at his jugular. And in that instant, the perimeter the remaining warriors had set up was broken. The undead poured in.

Glancing around him, Uther pressed his hammer into the ground and spoke quick, silent words. Before Arthas could reach him, Uther stood suddenly and threw an arm skyward, and beneath him a wave of holy fire erupted and consumed the ground. The concecrated ground melted the undead like wax to a candle. Arthas backed away from the wave of rolling fire before it reached him, fully aware of its abilities. In an instant, Uther also reached for his Book of the Light which, like the Urn, hung from his neck from a chain, and read it aloud.

"Vaes strath udon barrasti!" he cried out, and bolts of mana flew from his body into those of the remaining undead, impaling each of them as would a sword.

As Uther's spells faded, he fell to the ground on all fours. Sweat dripped from his face, and he heaved heavily for air. The land upon which the battle had taken place was now cracked and barren. In a great circle around the two, dead bodies of both the Alliance and Scourge lay.

Uther slowly got to his feet, struggling to lift his hammer. The old warrior looked at Arthas with a stare that would have frozen a lesser man. Arthas held his hands at his side and gathered shadow magics in a great ball that was shaped like a black-green skull. He let his death coil fly at the paladin and immediately began running at him.

Uther raised the hammer and absorbed the full blow of the death coil, but the paladin was not able to counter Arthas' stab this time. The blade went cleanly through his armor and through his ribcage, piercing his lung. Uther held his weapon firmly in one hand, and put another to the blade, slowly pushing himself off of it. He stumbled backwards, almost falling and coughing torrents of blood. A small ball of light emerged from his hand, and Uther placed the healing magic on his wound, sealing it to stop the internal bleeding.

"Arthas, if I don't kill you, by the Light someone who carries this justice" he held aloft Dawnshiver "will end your tyranny!"

"I'd like to see them try" Arthas replied flatly.

The two stood eye to eye once more. A final strike would finish the duel. Wind struck up a picturesque moment, as the cloaks of the Prince and the paladin rustled with a great cloud of black smoke rising in the distance.

Uther, gathering all his strength and will took one step forward, then two, and bounded into a run. Eyes alight and body surrounded by the blessings and seals of the Light he emitted a fluorescence so bright it was almost hard to look at. He was every inch the true warrior of the Light.

Arthas ran forward as well, raising Frostmourne in a battlestance above his shoulder and pointed directly at Uther's heart. Arthas left behind a horrid presence, the magics that surrounded him seeming to tear at the fabric of reality. Beneath his every step the ground and soil turned black and corrupt. His own eyes now burst into a black-purple energy.

In a single instant, the two struck at each other. Dawnshiver swung from the side, almost crushing Arthas' torso, but Frostmourne, with the longer range, punctured Uther's breastplate right in the center of his chest, tearing the L and lion tabard. Uther fell to his knees, blood now soaking the white tabard. The death knight looked down, triumphant. He saw a face that he had never seen Uther wear before; one of pure hatred.

"I dearly hope there's a special place in hell waiting for you Arthas" Uther said, focused on the hatred of the man before him.

"We may never know, Uther. I intend to live forever" Arthas replied.

Uther's body began to sag.

"Besides. I recall you saying once that vengeance and hatred is not a thing paladin's hold" Arthas then cruelly remarked, but before his comment was finished, Uther's eyes had closed and his life had slipped away.

With no emotion, no sympathy, and no pity, Arthas put his foot on his dead master's chest and pulled Frostmourne from Uther's body. He then cut the chains that held the Urn, and took the magical container firmly into his hands. It scintillated with protective energies and bore unique inscribing and runes.

The Prince walked over to the riverbed nearby and opened the top. He then turned the urn upside down, and let the ashes fall into the river or be picked up by the wind.

The familiar green flash ruptured the air, and Tichondrious appeared. "Excellent work death knight. With these pathetic humans out the way, the road east is cleared. Now we may begin the journey to Quel'thalas"

As the two disappeared into the smoke, a single body moved amongst the dead. Jorad Mace, whom had not obeyed orders and returned to fight in the battle, found that Uther, along with the entire Silver Hand contingent, had been slain. However, in Uther's own defiance, he had not fallen when dying, and remained on his knees resolutely as if a battle standard flapping brightly in the wind. Overhead, the clouded sky had begun to break, and a single ray of light shone down upon the field where Uther and his paladins had made their last stand.

(Apologies for the late chapter, but I was in China for two and a half weeks without access to a computer. As I am back now, the writing begins once more! Read & Review)


	17. Chapter 16: Toward Rack and Ruin

**Chapter 16: Toward Rack and Ruin**

Tirisfal Glades, the Great Monastery

"So the rumors are true then. A moment of prayer, please" a man whose head was hidden under a massive horned helm spoke.

"Lord Uther has fallen in battle. This letter is the final proof we need" another said.

Overhead the sun's glare shone down upon the long table through the red glass tinting the light in crimson. On the walls hung great paintings of figures, warriors and holy men of all ages and from all eras.

"Then we shall ride forth and extract our vengeance. Too long have we dwelt dutifully in this place. The armies of Lordaeron require our power" a third said this one with a female voice.

"Bite your tongue, Abbendis, you're not Lord of the Silver Hand yet" the first voice replied.

The one called Abbendis scowled at the comment.

"The fact is now that the Plague has infected the Capital City, however, though this disease continues to ravage the people of this country, the main force of the Scourge has marched east, towards Quel'thalas" yet a third voice chimed.

"Then we must warn the elves! They can yet aid us in this war" Abbendis said, her pale red hair swishing from side to side as she spoke.

"Unfortunately at the moment that is impossible, General Abbendis" the man at the end of the table finally spoke up. All eyes turned to him, and each one at the table unconsciously straightened as he spoke.

His eyes were an ocean blue and his hair was a mane of red-blond. His face was weathered and timeworn, but still stern and that of a warrior. The armor he wore was a black as pitch and was fashioned to have jet skulls on the kneepads and shoulders. It was the fearsome _Dreadnaught _armor, forged in the deepest fires of Blackrock Spire after the fall of the Horde. Its likeness inspired fear in both friend and foe.

"With Uther gone, the forces of the Alliance east of Darrowmere Lake are scattered and leaderless. General Volsung and his force are pinned against the Alterac Mountains by the rearguard of the Scourge and thus he cannot get his orders out properly. A messenger would have to go around the undead force which covers most of the traversable land in that area, thus even our fastest runner would take a month to reach the borders of Quel'thalas, by which time the Scourge would already be there. No, the elves are on their own"

"Yes…Highlord Mograine" Abbendis acknowledged the elder's decision.

"But you are correct in assuming that we can no longer sit here teaching a new generation in the ways of the Light and failing to heal those already afflicted with the Plague. The Silver Hand has been shattered at Andorhol, many of its senior leaders slain already. For all we know we might be the last. And thus we shall ride forth and aid the Alliance. Let us muster the strength of the Light in our grasp and turn these foul undead to ashes in our wake. We ride at the sunset to battle!" Mograine exclaimed, abruptly standing up and slamming his mailed fist on the table. He then turned face, his scarlet cloak flying behind him.

"Come young Fordring, prepare my mount" the Highlord said to one of his squires as he exited the hall.

"'The Ashbringer Mograine' fights once again" one of the voices whispered at the emptying table.

"Indeed Isillien. Prepare to witness the end of this war" Abbendis said confidently.

And thus the paladins of the Great Monastery entered the fray.

Darrowshire, Lordaeron

Darrowshire was a town of hardworking residents tucked along the Alterac Mountains. Boasting the large population of three thousand, it was one of the largest towns in the countryside of south eastern Lordaeron. Situated not far from its namesake, Darrowmere Lake, many of the townspeople were fishermen.

Joseph Redpath smiled as he saw the everyday life of his people strive on, despite all the dark news that came from the outside world these days. This was the spirit of humanity, right here at work.

Darrowshire had so far avoided the fate of the towns in the north where the Plague had been festering. Nay, Darrowshire was content with itself, though many of her sons had left for the wars. Joseph Redpath thanked the Light that his son was not old enough yet to fight. The tender child still took milk from his mother's breast after all.

"Joseph, darling! Come quickly! The mayor is holding a meeting!" his wife Myrra yelled from behind him.

"Yes, yes, dear, I'm coming" Joseph replied, resting his wheelbarrow on the ground. If the mayor was holding a meeting then something must've been up after all.

Walking through the streets of the small town he arrived at the town hall in the commons next to the Church. A great crowd of men had gathered. Joseph heard the mayor's voice amidst the murmurs of the fathers and workmen of the town.

"…the word that the Scourge approaches. It hasn't been confirmed yet, but rumor has it that a great army of undead marches from the west and will pass through our area"

Sudden shock hit Joseph. Was his utopia about to be erased? War was coming to Darrowshire? Impossible…

"Where's the King's soldiers!? Where's the Alliance?" calls rose from the crowd.

"The Alliance is busy fighting on other fronts, not to mention are cut off from this province. They can't support all the towns in Lordaeron right now. Its up to us to fend for ourselves" the gray bearded mayor answered stoically.

Joseph could sense that the townspeople's worry with the mayor's answer. In his past many had seen men in leadership positions crack under the pressure of command. Rykov had been a leader picked out of necessity long ago, but since he had done his duty well enough. Though…if indeed the Scourge was marching the way of Darrowshire, how could the townspeople stand firm in the way of such a force? It was like a worm versus a bird. The only possible way for everyone to survive would be the bury themselves deep in the mountains, if those said mountains didn't kill them first. Was the mayor mad?

Joseph's heart quivered with the thought of the end of the peace that had so blessedly fallen over Darrowshire. The village had seen enough in the Second War.

"Dear gods…" he heard whispers.

"I have been mayor of this town for right fifteen years and the tenacity of its people still impress me. You all know that there is now no place to run. It's winter and the mountain's will be just as foreboding as this supposed invasion. From what I have heard, this army of undead is heading past us, to the far east. If it's true, then if Darrowshire can just hold out for a few days, perhaps a week or two, then we can survive.

"Mayor Rykov…" Joseph finally spoke up.

"Yes, Goodman Redpath?" the mayor said, smiling at him. The two had long since known each other; one the town's politician, one a simple farmer, both from the same school and army unit long ago.

"I have a family; two children and a wife, not to mention my parents, brother, and cousins that live in this town. Are you telling me that there is no way to save them from having to either suffer the wrath of the Scourge? For the sake of all that is Holy, there _must _be another way. Can we not gather what we need and take for the walls of Tyr's Hand?" Joseph said desperately.

Heads nodded in agreement.

"We would that if we could, Goodman Redpath. But at the speed that the Scourge marches, even if we set off this night, we wouldn't reach sight of Tyr's Hand before we were overtaken. No, our only chance is to prepare ourselves and sit tight while this menace passes us by. But as you can all see," Rykov pointed to his peg leg "I can no longer lead men along ramparts or the front. We will need a militia and volunteers to hold fast the borders of the town. And we will need a leader…" he left off, eyeing Joseph anxiously.

"No…" Joseph let a hiss escape. He had left his warring days behind. He didn't want to relive that hell, not again. But nobody had heard his silent plea.

"For those who wish to flee, I suggest you leave as soon as possible, though I most ardently wish for you to remain steadfastly with us here in your town" Rykov continued. "Tomorrow morning we shall know if this threat is true, and I will begin to take volunteers for our militia force. May the Light be with us all" With that the mayor stepped off his pedestal and hobbled out the door. Behind him the crowd dispersed leaving Joseph Redpath behind, still staring at where Rykov had given his speech.

Slowly, he prodded out the town hall and made his way into the church, whose pews were already packed full. He took his usual seat in the forth row, sixth seat, and bowed his head, praying for the news to be false. The figures on the stained glass windows looked down on him with pity, knowing his fate.

The next morning, black clouds rolled forward to herald the coming of the Scourge.

Joseph Redpath somehow found himself in the office of the mayor, and with a face of stone, signed the papers that marked him as Captain of the Darrowshire Milita.

Quel'thalas Border (2 Weeks Later)

Hala Feathersprite clutched the quiver that hung loosely over her right arm. Through the woods she could see movement in the far distance. More human refugees? They had been coming in droves lately, seeking asylum in Quel'thalas. The Ranger General, Sylvanas Windrunner, had taken some of them in, placing them in camps near the edge of the border, but eventually a disorientation barrier had to be placed along the geometry of the Runestones to prevent the masses from overrunning the border guards.

The rustling in the thick wood continued. Eversong Forest had been infiltrated by someone, or something. How they got past the magic of the Runestones was beyond Hala's guess.

Moving like a squirrel through the trees, flying like a bird between the branches, the elf's agility allowed her to move forward faster than any human could, especially when inside such a claustrophobic wood. The movement was getting closer. Suddenly, Hala's nose picked up a scent…SMOKE!

Looking up, she saw a huge plume of smoke rising from the forest in front of her. The cloud reached high into the sky and seemed to be moving with whatever was intruding in glade. Rage filled Hala. The last one's to try and burn their way through Quel'thalas had been the Horde in the Second War, and they had been punished to where they could never again rise to the war machine they once were. But what could be burning the forests now? Trolls? Nay, they lived amongst the woods as the elves did. Humans? Not even they would be foolish enough to stage an insurrection in Quel'thalas. That left one force strong enough to make it past the outer Runestones…

"The undead Scourge" Hala said to herself as she leapt nimbly off a branch and landed on one not thick enough to even place her whole foot on. Up ahead was a vantage point. The entire forest behind her seemed to be moving now, trees swishing without stop.

Jumping to one more treetop, everything became visible. First, a single skeletal figure, bones yellowed and eyes filled with blue orbs so malefic and unnatural they stung to look at. Then two more appeared: Four, six, twelve, thirty. Hala quickly lost count. The number multiplied exponentially. Massive siege engines cut their way through the forest, men in black robes marching amongst horrible abominations and ghoulish beings.

"Dear gods…" Hala whispered as she looked beyond what was below her. A huge snaking line stretched into the horizon and beyond. Hala couldn't even estimate their number; thousands, tens of thousands. Maybe more…

A shadow suddenly flitted over her. Craning her head up towards the blue sky, her mouth fell agape. What looked like a black clouds in the distance became a flock of birds, and then a flight of horrifying creatures. Their skin was of stone and their faces bore grotesque expressions. With wings stretched out far, they came with blinding speed.

"Shit!" Hala cursed as one of the flying creatures spotted her. She quickly slid down the tree and began to retreat. The creature dipped down into the leaves and gave chase. With a speed faster than an elf speeding through the woods, it quickly began to catch up to her. Hala suddenly grabbed onto a branch and twisted to reach one of her arrows. Pulling back the quiver, she let loose the arrow which flew straight into the creature's ominously green eye. The eye shattered like a sickly emerald, but the terrifying avian-thing continued toward her at full speed, shattering and slicing tree limbs with its wings.

Hala's eyes widened as the thing barreled towards her at full speed. She couldn't dodge. With a bone crunching thud, the monster rammed into her, pulling its talons up and sinking them deep into her thighs.

"Die beast!" she screamed, bringing an enchanted Ranger's blade down on its wing. After two slashes, the stone-like wing cracked and gave way. As the two fell towards the ground at terminal velocity, Hala looked back once more to where the Scourge was coming. Quel'thalas, the elven kingdom that had stood proudly for seven thousand years, had been invaded by the army of the damned.

Quel'thalas, Greenwood Pass

Arthas looked on at the landscape of Quel'thalas. Great conifers and deciduous trees sprawled over the landscape, with a few open plains scattered about, usually housing elven shires and hamlets. The land had a mystical feel to it, ancient and wondrous. The last time he had been here he had been eleven, joining his father on a diplomatic mission to try and appease the High Elves to remain in the Alliance.

"Where is the entrance to your lands, elf?" Arthas demanded. He had been interrogating the same elf for nearly an hour, but even the physical torture had not cracked his spirit.

Decapitated bodies of captured elves lay all along the Greenwood Pass upon stakes as trophies of war.

The elf's bloodstained lips curled into a smile. "The forest itself will not permit you to go farther. It fights alongside us. They protect our borders, and the enchanted Elf gates protect our capitol".

"Your precious gates will not stop me any more than these trees, little elf"

This was getting nowhere. The prisoner would not answer properly. "Very well then" he said under his breath. He then motioned his hands and four ghouls instantly jumped on him, ravenously tearing his flesh from bone.

Walking away from the screams, Arthas heard the voice of Kel'thuzad again. The necromancer's apparition appeared before him. "_The elves likely wait in ambush, Prince. You should be wary" _

"The frail elves do not concern me necromancer! Our forces are strengthened with every foe we slay" Arthas retorted.

"_Don't be too overconfident Death Knight. The elves must not be taken lightly" _the former necromancer preached.

"We'll see"

The Scourge had advanced past the borders and Quel'thalas and were cutting a deep line through the forests, burning everything that got in the way. But the advance had not been without its own problems. As the elf had said, the forest itself seemed to twist and change, throwing him off course and blocking their path. Sometimes, the trees themselves seemed to come alive and use their ancient, gnarled branches to swipe at his troops, clearing dozens of them at a time. At the head of his column right now a copse had appeared out of nowhere, with thick brambles and bushes blocking any hope of moving forward. That added with the small pockets of resistance from the elves had slowed down the march to the Sunwell greatly.

"Bring up the meat wagons!" Arthas yelled out. He grinned as six massive siege machines moved up to the front of the column and launched their flaming payload on the forest. He threw out his arms, and dozens of skeletal warriors armed with axes rushed forward and began to cut at the trees.

As the trees began to fall, arrows flew from the branches catching the fire. The fiery arrows hit the meat wagons, setting them aflame.

"Destroy them!" Arthas commanded, and the Scourge swarmed forward into the thinning wood. The black Prince rode forward atop his undead steed, following the blackened and charred remains of the trees that had just stood before them.

A large contingent of elves armed with spears appeared out of thin air and fanned out to hold back the Scourge. Their armor was white and silver, bearing gold trimmings and green cloaks. The elves yelled as the Scourge forces closed ranks and slammed into their line. Arrows flew from the trees, hindering the calling up of additional troops, as if advancing in a long linear formation wasn't hard enough.

"Burn it! Burn it all!" Arthas cackled manically, motioning towards the trees where the elves were appearing from. More flaming ammunition from the meat wagons crashed down into the elven archer's positions amongst the branches, creating a de facto crematorium for any beings ahead of the Scourge's advance.

The elven spearmen ahead were beginning to be overwhelmed by the Scourge's superior numbers. Slowly their formation was flanked and then surrounded. With no place to run, the elves fought to the last, but their stand hadn't changed a thing. The undead surged forward, coming upon a small elven settlement.

"So that was why they tried to protect this place so well" Arthas sneered as him and his troops ran rampant through the streets, letting the elven civilians blood flow like wine.

"It is the traitorous human Prince! Run for your lives!" one elven villager cried out.

"Find Sylvanas! The undead advance!" a stronger looking elf yelled. His quickly grabbed a makeshift weapon and rushed at Arthas, whom sliced his body in two with a single stroke of Frostmourne.

It didn't take too long before the elves cries of horror were silenced however.

Kel'thuzad's voice echoed again. Indeed, it was becoming quite the annoyance, having the ghost look over his shoulder at everything he did. "_The natural ley-lines of magic run strongly here. This place is perfect for a great fortress from which you can stage further invasion! Level all the elven structures, slaughter every last one of them!" _

The immaculate buildings of the elven shire, tall and strange, fell before the wave of the undead. "It'll be a pleasure" Arthas returned, licking his cracked, purple lips.

Even before the last elven structure collapsed, a great necropolis had been summoned from the foreboding lands of Northrend. The great building steamed as it appeared, the ice that had built on its outermost lairs melting rapidly in a runoff of torrential water.

The necropolises were buildings that captured the very essence of magic in its natural form along its ley lines and converted that into a primal place for continued summoning and reanimation.

And so the Scourge continued their march into the realm eternal.

Quel'thalas, the next day

"_Soon…soon they will come"_

Sylvanas Windrunner and her soldiers lay in wait amongst the trees of the Everlane, the great road that bisected Quel'thalas. Without a doubt, the Scourge would pass through this area attempting the follow the path. It was then that they could ambush them and stem the tide of invasion.

"Ranger-General!" a voice called from behind Sylvanas.

"What is it?" Sylvanas asked the scout that had appeared from nowhere. Elves were good at that, especially the Rangers: her Rangers.

"The forward most elements of the Scourge's army is just around the bend in the road. They are nearly upon us. It is said that Arthas, the human Prince, marches with them"

Sylvanas nodded her head, which caused her long, blond hair to bob with it. Her sharp eyes perceived the movement that was nearing in the bushes, and the fires seemed to be closing in.

Thus far the Scourge had been greatly unimpeded. They had taken the Elves by surprise by easily bypassing the Runestones which were supposed to disarm any kind of magical enchantment, including necromancy. After that the undead had swarmed through the center of Quel'thalas, bisecting it along the Greenwood Pass which led up to the first Elfgate.

But now Sylvanas had mustered the strength of the Ranger Corps, the elite fighting force of the High Elves. However, the Corps was still split into various armies that would converge once the Scourge's main assault vector was confirmed. The Rangers would be one of the few things standing between the Scourge and Silvermoon, greatest city of all elvenkind. Sylvanas had been the Ranger-General for almost a decade and a half now, taking over the job after her sister Alleria Windrunner sacrificed her life to close the Dark Portal forever sealing away the world of Draenor.

But now was not the time to think of such things. The Scourge's forces had already begun to march past the hidden elves. Little did they know of the battle that was about to take place…

Sylvanas held up her hand, and the hundreds of elven soldiers crouching behind her prepared for battle. Archers in the trees above saw the signal and conveyed it to the other parts of the army all around the Scourge's main force.

With a swift motion, Sylvanas' arm went ridged and fell, pointing towards the huge lines of the undead.

A low hiss suddenly became audible. It grew steadily, louder…louder…and then a great shadow appeared, blocking out the sun. Sylavnus looked up and smiled. A flight of thousands of arrows ripped through the sky and utterly decimated the Scourge's front lines. Before the elves could even cheer at their victory, hundreds of undead poured from the trees.

"Ballistae!" Sylvanas yelled out. Dozens of ballistae let loose their deadly payload which crushed upwards of twenty beings at a time.

Yet no matter how much firepower the elven army concentrated the undead kept coming. Their force began to fan out now, covering more area and putting distance between themselves so the arrows would miss.

Sylvanas realized that their arrows alone could not hold back the Scourge. She motioned towards the troops behind her, whom rose out of their hiding places. Dressed in greens, gold, and silvers, the High Elven army rushed out of the woods toward the clearing where the Scourge was coming from. The archers, knowing that their troops were now advancing, fired their ammunition farther back.

Now, with her own forest-green cloak flying behind her, Sylvanas accompanied her troops toward the battle. She took aim with her enchanted bow, _Onesight_, replacing arrows as fast as she shot them off. Before she knew it, her quiver was empty. The horrible monsters of the Scourge quickly bore down on the elves, whom fought their numbers with agility and decades of swords-practice.

To the far right of the field where the two forces was engaged, Sylvanas' blue eyes caught more movement.

"Damn!" she cried out. The undead had already flanked them. Whistles from the branches echoed amongst the battlefield. The archers amongst the trees had already noticed the maneuver.

"Pull back! Back to the trees!" she yelled, and slowly but surely the Rangers withdrew to the safety of the forest. Sylvanas fought with the last few soldiers, covering the retreat of the wounded. The hit-and-run engagement had cost them casualties, but it could have been far worse had the undead attack not been noticed earlier.

Suddenly, what seemed like a titan in black armor upon a skeletal horse appeared at the front of the Scourge's attack. His hair was white as snow, and skin had paled to an ashen color.

"Arthas…" she hissed: the Prince whom had slain his father and now fought with the Scourge.

Before he could advance any further, a hail of arrows thudded into the ground before the Scourge. The undead stopped before the new line of arrows. The fallen Prince slowly rode forward.

"You are not welcome here. I am Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon. I advise you to turn back, now" she stated.

"It is you who should turn back, Sylvanas. Death itself has come to your land" the Prince spat.

"We shall see…" Sylvanas said, slowly pulling into the shadows of the forest until the Scourge's force disappeared from sight.

As the day wore on, more soldiers from the other armies began to pour into her camp near the Elfgate which protected inner Quel'thalas. However it seemed for every soldier she received, another report of the Scourge's advance along some new path would crop up. In any case, it was here, at the Elfgate, that their invasion would be stopped. Of that, Sylvanas was confident.


	18. Chapter 17: Ranger and Death Knight

**Chapter 17: The Ranger and the Death Knight**

Quel,thalas, Goldenmist Village: Two weeks after the invasion

Arthas Menethil rode over a field of war. Around him great swathes of trees had been burned as far as the eye could see, and bodies of noble elven dames, swordsmen, archers, workers, and even babes lay littered about.

At Spiros the elves had been overrun: at Tranquillian their massed forces had been smashed in a grand battle that covered the land, at Windrunner Village stiff guerilla warfare was put up, the elves even attempting to set fire to their own town to prevent the Scourge from moving further on. Now at Goldenmist Village another group had made their last stand. The Scourge moved inexorably towards the Outer Gate.

With the spires of the great gate not far off, now in sight. Arthas set to the front of the Scourge's army. He was beginning to feel bored. The elves had not put up as much resistance as he had hoped lately. Since Tranquillian most had seemed to fall back, melting into the foliage as they had when the undead had first invaded. But what a battle it was, the Death Knight admitted to himself.

Sylvanas had grouped her smaller force through the forest-pass town, creating a phalanx of armored elves. The Scourge came upon them relentlessly as if waves on a +shore, but even when the elves stood knee deep amongst the corpses of their comrades they resiliently stayed put. When Arthas commanded a legion of three thousand troops to attack the flank, they seemed to disappear in a hail of arrows from the trees to east of town. The elves had succeeded in stopped the Scourge's advance, if only for a little while. The Prince ordered his meat wagons to launch diseased…rubble, into the town, but the ever so skilled elvish priests cleansed the sick and festering ammunition alike.

On the seventh day a contingent of elven battlemages must have arrived because even before the crack of dawn one of the fiercest magical storms Arthas had ever seen bubbled up and decimated the frontlines of his troops. Thousands of his underlings had perished. In that moment the Ranger General had seen fit to press her attack. Her troops had come out of their trenches and battle lines, rushing forward into the disorganized Scourge. A hurricane of magic, arrows, and swords descended upon the Scourge's column, which was pushed back at least a mile south.

But the elves had fallen for the trap that would break the stalemate. Arthas, along with the Cult's most proficient necromancers had come forth to the front line and raised all the dead whom had accumulated over the past few days, absorbing nearly all of the remaining ambient magic of the local area. The Death Knight had tricked the elves into not minding their dead, allowing them to be buried or places in great mounds for funeral pyres after the battle. They hadn't expected that in the Scourge's counterattack which had caused merely a bulge in their lines would contain the greatest sorcerers that the disciples of the Lich King could call on.

As the Scourge's forces were suddenly bolstered and the slain arose, the elves found themselves fighting from within their own lines and rear. Then, the Scourge's main body which had taken time from the ploy rallied and attacked hoping to eliminate the elvish army. But the Ranger General had proven herself resourceful again and used the mages she had received to teleport great swathes of her force away from the battle.

The crafty Sylvanas had shown herself to him again in the midst of the fighting.

"Bow to the Lich King's will. Become his servants, and your people may yet retain their lives" he had told her. The statement was as true as if the sun rose in the west and set in the east, and Sylvanas was clever enough to see through his spiced tongue.

"Little chance of that, Death Knight. We will fight you wherever we need to. We will fight on the shores, the forests, and the streets of our Capitol, provided you ever get there. Think of it this way fallen Prince: not even the Horde made it past the Outer Gate, and neither shall your pitiful farce of an army" the beautiful elven general had replied with a will as hard as thorium reflected in her gray eyes.

"Haha, yes. Well, at least some of your people may yet survive. Even now there are those whom would rather side with the winners than lay down their lives for your ideals" Arthas chuckled.

That had set Sylvanas' face stone cold. Obviously she had not thought of traitors from within, when the fact was that there were more than a few elves Arthas had already contacted through his growing mental telepathy powers.

"Why an elf would give up on their own race is beyond me" she said, trying to defend her point.

"It isn't to me. And besides, this pitiful farce of an army has continuously forced yours back. Doesn't look to me like your haughtiness is so called for"

"Really? I'll enjoy seeing your face when you realize what you're walking into" Sylvanas said, leaving him with that conundrum before hopping off to another branch out of his sight.

By the time the battle ended Tranquillian (which had been until that point one of the elves greatest cities) had been devastated. Not a single building stood as it had before.

He seemed to have learned the answer to the Ranger General's statement when around every turn raiding parties would pop up and slow the column down. It had been a great annoyance, and Arthas had cut down several ghouls himself to vent his wrath.

The Prince stuffed a loaf of stale bread in his mouth, followed by a bite of raw meat from some wild creature he had had a ghoul scavenge for him. He then took a long draught of Runningwine that had been mixed with blood that had accidentally dripped into it. Normally the Lich King's power was enough to keep him sustained, but behind the elven barrier of the Runestones even the Lich King's power could fully penetrate. It was for that reason that several great ziggurats had been constructed along with the great base of operations at the base of Quel'thalas that he had named "Deatholme".

Looking up, he saw the spires of the huge Outer Gate once again. It took nearly an hour longer to reach the base of it, but when the trees cleared the Gate stood resolutely in front of them with the elvish army that had thus far evaded destruction.

Arthas let a smile come over his twisted visage.

"Finally" he said.

Signs of the battle that had taken place here between the Horde and the elves were evident still, great pockmarks in the ground and the obvious lack of trees in vicinity of the great barrier. The Gate was ornate beyond the belief of an average human: vast wreathing wings of gold and mother-of-pearl spreading from the center where a great glowing sapphire lay. A huge jade tree was embedded atop the sapphire and obsidian traced the edges of the Gate. Elves ran too and fro on top of the great gate, aiming their ballistae at the Scourge which slowly appeared through the dark forest floor. The Gate itself must've been sixty feet tall and forty feet wide, paved with thick blocks of material that looked like ivory, but must've been twice as strong. A magical stasis field burned a deep magenta in the middle over the actual gate doors. The only way through it would be to tear down the entire thing. It was a formidable foe on its own.

As the Scourge drew up for the battle, the elves took their positions, and for a moment the two armies faced each other again: enemies, veterans of each other. A brief gust of wind threw up a mass of dandelions that had been growing on the grassy field, and amidst the pageant of white seedlings taking flight, the Scourge rushed forward.

Overhead, flaming balls from the meat wagons flew, crisscrossing with arrows and ballistae munitions. Zaps of lightning from the elven lines smoldered scores while lances of magical ice pierced dozens at a time. Responding in kind, the Scourge's warlocks and necromancer's replied with afflicting spells that melted the elves in their armor.

The two lines of warriors met in the middle of the field, elvish pikes gutting ghouls while abominations ran rampant through the long-eared warriors, clubbing them down with knives and tree trunks and whatever else they could get their hands on.

Arthas rode with vigor towards the battle, conjuring a ball of malefic energy in his hand. The death coil turned its victims to ashes as it fired like a cannonball: straight and unending, until it smashed into the Gate.

The Death Knight suddenly felt a tug on his shoulder plating, and listed to the side, almost falling off his undead mare. Glancing to his right, he saw a plume of bright feathers at the end of a steaming blue shaft protruding from his shoulder pad. Amongst some small bushes to the right, he saw the face of Sylvanas, her face partway between a smile and frustration.

"You bitch!" he yelled, turning his mount to meet her, not bothering to register the pain. He tore the arrow out with his other hand while it still gripped Frostmourne, sending blood squirting from the wound.

"You are my prey" she whispered under her breath, preparing another arrow.

Arthas swatted the missile aside with Frostmourne, but before he could even fully face front again, another projectile was flying straight towards him.

"Dodge that!" Sylvanas cried loudly, as the arrow flew towards the middle of the Death Knight's widening eyes.

The Grace Fields

Valdar had been recovering from his wounds for nearly two months now. Calendar's End was around the corner, and 614 was looking to be a bleak year. Winter had already begun, and the first snows came and went. Since summer things had seemed to tumble out of control. It seemed like another lifetime when he remembered his first fight against the orcs. No, he hadn't really fought them. Back then he was just a scout. What a boy he had been then: eager and excited, and foolish.

His first fight came against the undead later that month. But those memories he preferred not to recall. Valdar had come to think of being wounded as the best part of his life this past year. He was finally stable, not having to move around with an army full of unwashed men. He received rations on a daily basis, though they were better than what the army got. Many fresh vegetables plucked from the local farmers (some of whom had braved the great battles and continued their harvests against all odds) were donated to the field hospital. Sure, the nights were freezing, there was smell of blood was always in the air, boredom ruled supreme, and horrific groans from the wounded came relentlessly, but laying down in a small cot covered in blankets was better than fighting battles. Still though, he wished to know how the men in his regiment were doing. Because the 6th Army had still not broken out of the Scourge's siege, some of the men would come by to visit every so often, especially his friend Ghent whom brought a deck of cards that would sometimes help the slow days go by.

Other times he felt his eyes following the beautiful nurse whom had tended to him so diligently for the past six weeks. When he thought of her, the pain in his abdomen would disappear and warmth would fill his cold spirit. Ellena Waymail…her sandy blond hair tied behind her in a small bun, her amber eyes that burned with the desire to help, creamy skin, her full features, and a universal kindness. It had been her family that had voluntarily taken in the wounded soldiers in their house. Being landowners, they owned a small granary and tool shed in town where they placed other soldiers.

"A true woman" the man on the cot next to his own had once said when she went to replace their bandages.

He usually remained silent when she came by, not wanting to offend her in any way by saying something foolish. In truth, he had never been a charmer, or even able to converse with women in a totally relaxed manner. Sometimes he would gather the courage to utter a few words other than the obligatory 'thank you', and she always seemed to smile at his attempts to communicate to the other sex, sometimes seeming to teasing his cottonmouth by whispering into his ear when it was for his checkup.

As if she had read his thoughts, she suddenly appeared from behind, holding in her hand two pieces of parchment. A pained expression contorted her pleasant face, and she slowly reached down to give him the papers. What was she doing here? It was the middle of the night.

"I'm so sorry, Valdar" she said, biting her lower lip.

Confused, Valdar bent up to receive the papers. Pain lanced through his gut as he did so, but he was able to reach her hand without reopening his wounds.

"My father's seal…" he whispered as he saw the torn wax press his father used. Undoubtedly Ellena had read the mail, for what reason, he didn't know.

He unfolded the parchment and began to read. Suddenly, Ellena saw the paper's fall from his hands. Her patient doubled over, fell off the small cot, and then let out a moan of pain. She quickly moved to aid him back into the bed.

"Don't do that!" she chided, trying to sound strong. But her voice was clearly sympathetic.

Valdar's eyes began to glass over from the pain of both his wounds and what was written in the letter. Ellena held his head in her lap as he felt for the papers that had fallen onto the dusty deck.

"My brothers…they're dead…" he said at last. "They were priests in Hearthglen. Father didn't want them to fight in a war, he didn't want them to suffer like he did…like I did…" he felt the words float from his mouth like guideless clouds. The tears in his eyes refused to fall. Why? The realization of it had numbed him. "Why?! Why did you open this?! These are my affairs!" he suddenly yelled, ignoring the pain.

Ellena's eyes locked with his.

"I didn't want you to feel any more pain. I just wanted to be there to help you through this. I don't know how, but I knew those letters had ill in them" she replied, placing a hand on his heart.

Valdar felt hopeless; like a lost child. Here he was, wounded, unable to leave this place, to help his comrades, to comfort what was left of his family…he was…paralyzed.

"There isn't much mail these days, so what comes through must be urgent. Your father must've hired a private courier to give this to you" she continued, trying to give him something else to think about.

The man next to Valdar's cot shuffled, grumbling about the noise, then returning to his snoring.

Valdar fell mute, his muscles refusing to move. Tigris and Kelvinn, his two younger brothers…both had perished so long ago, in the battle of Hearthglen, without him even knowing. The date on the papers was written for four months ago. How had it even managed to come through after so much time?

The anger washed through him again. Blinding anger, a white hot feeling that overrode all other thought: at the Scourge, at his father, at his brothers for dying, at Ellena for opening his letters, at everything. He bolted out of bed clutching his badaged abdomen which began to bleed from the movement. He walked towards the door.

"Don't! You're still wounded! You need time to rest" Ellena cried out after him.

"No! I won't stop until I see these monsters gone forever. I will avenge my brothers and all those who died in this pitiful war. I can't ignore this…not anymore…" Valdar's thoughts flashed back to the orcs slaying the innocent townspeople, the burning of Stratholme, the memories of him and his brothers building a snowman, his father laughing jovially, the memory of a crying mother and silent grandfather burying children, the destruction caused by this war.

"There has to be a way to stop so much suffering. Its impossible to go on like this" Valdar said, speaking his deepest feelings.

"I know pain of the heart as well. My father died fighting orcs, and my eldest brother fell sick and passed three years ago" Ellena spoke after a long quiet. "I wanted to hate the world for choosing those two for death, but its not a human's place to rebel against fate. You can confide your pain with me and share it. I understand. Just, don't go. Not yet"

Valdar stood in the doorway, the cold air blasting over his skin and weaving its way through the robe he wore.

Why was she doing this for him? Other men had lost family as well. Damned near everyone had lost someone from wars or the Plague. Why was he so special as to receiver her comfort?

Valdar slowly looked behind to see Ellena's face now tear strewn. Still, for some reason, the tears would not fall from Valdar's eyes. No, he could not cry until he saw this through to the end. That much he knew.

He then looked back outside, took a few steps onto the freezing deck, and stood there. Ellena silently joined him, putting a coat over his shoulders. The two stood there closely for a long time, each absorbing the other's heat and presence, waiting for the sunrise.

Darrowshire

"They're gone" Joseph Redpath sighed in relief.

The Scourge's main force had passed by in the north for several weeks now, but had mostly ignored the townstead of Darrowshire. Raids came every now and again, but Redpath and his militia men drove them off before they could reach the main road into town.

His thin armor clinked as he passed through the barricade that had been erected in front of the town. "Neil, you're in charge" he said, leaving his second in command to sort out the details of posting guards, scouts, and relieving men.

He walked amongst his men for a little, chatting and laughing with them in their triumph.

"You hear about Garithos? He says he's raising an army to relieve the East!"

"General Volsung is still trapped!"

"I heard Uther the Lightbringer's dead"

"My brother says he talked to a trader who said Stormwind left the Alliance!"

Rumors were abound. Some of them might be true, other not. Either way, Joseph decided that faith in the Light, and in the souls of men, would overcome these dark times.

Another skirmish had taken place, but none had been slain or even wounded. Redpath prided himself on that. Since his appointment as Captain of the militia, he had worked tirelessly to create a system of barricades, trench works, and traps that would stop the Scourge from advancing into the town. His wife and children had taken up the chores at the farm as did the families of all the other men whom had been inducted into defending Darrowshire.

The militia was poorly equipped however. Most of the men didn't have any kind of armor at all, and their weapons were an odd mix of tools like pitchforks to shovels to wooden steaks to age-blunted short swords.

Overhead dark clouds arced, preparing to unleash snow on the Lordaerel countryside. It was cold now, so most people had begun to buckle down for the winter. Being close to the mountains and a much higher elevation than most of Lordaeron, Darrowshire usually had colder winters than the rest of the country. He plodded down the cobbled streets towards the mayor's office, one of the biggest buildings in town besides the town hall and church.

"Hey, sir! Sir!" a childlike voice called out to him.

A skinny little boy with a smudged face appeared from an alleyway.

"Ahoy, there little mister" Joseph said.

"Got some coin?" the boy asked, smiling, while holding out his hands.

"Why is it that ye be out here begging? Beggars are frowned upon ye know" Redpath said scolding.

"I know…" the boy admitted "but mother says I need to ask for coin while she hunts so we can eat"

"And you can't afford the food from the market?" Joseph said, his spirits now falling.

"No. Mother says the prices have in-faded or something likes that" the boy replied once more. He then held out his hands and smiled again.

"Here, take this. Make sure you buy enough to last you a while. It could get very snowy soon. Be good!" Joseph said, putting a few silver pieces in the child's hands; a quarter of his Captain's pay for the month.

"Wow! Thanks sir!" the kid ran off.

Joseph smiled at the child's enthusiasm.

Redpath reached the mayor's office not long after, feeling the warmth explode over him as he entered the building which had a roaring fire in the main hall.

"Rykov!" he yelled.

Mayor Rykov appeared before his eyes as if magic had called upon him. "What brings you here Captain?" he asked.

"My men just fought off another incursion of undead. They're numbers are getting greater each time. I know we haven't lost anyone yet, but it's inevitable if they keep coming like this. And why in the name of the Light aren't you doing anything about the inflation? I just saw a _child _begging for money for the Gods' sakes! I've never seen anyone that had to resort to begging in this town before, least of all children. We've always taken care of each other" the Captain of the militia spoke.

"Inflation? Well, its not like I can conjure food like a wizard! I don't have control over the prices in this town. I'm not a royal governor you know!" the mayor retorted.

"But you could at least try to contact some of the surrounding towns" Joseph insisted.

"In case you haven't noticed Joseph, it's a bit dangerous to send runners too and fro while the Scourge is concentrated around us"

"Damnit…" Redpath cursed. Things were only going to get worse when the snows came.

"Aye" the mayor agreed, his eyes hinting at something.

"You know…its not too late" Joseph whispered, looking up at Rykov.

"For what?"

"To make a break for Tyr's Hand"

"I told you no before. We can't support all the townspeople through the wilderness in the middle of the winter, especially while the Scourge is out there. I've made my decision and its final. If anyone wants to try and escape, and that includes you Joseph, you are free to go, though I rather you stay here and help defend your comrades"

Before Joseph could respond, the door flung open letting in a gust of cold air.

"Cap'in! Refugees! Lots of them!" a runner from the barricade yelled out.

"Damn" the militia captain cursed again before rushing out the door.

Slums of Lordegarde

Jaeger Lorydist rushed through the ghetto of the Capitol in a black cloak. He purposefully kept as much distance from the disgusting lowborn scum that infested the streets. His meeting place would be the same as it always was: the abandoned row behind the Sept Road.

Under the black hood his face was flushed red with anger. He had instigated the short-lived civil war in Lordaeron, but nothing had turned out as planned. The plans he had so carefully set up fell apart as soon as he slaughtered most of the Chamber of Nobles. The Cult of the Damned was supposed to have aided him take the throne. Now his followers were scattered, killed, or captured by the Royalists or other separatist forces.

His 'benefactor' stood in the same place as he always had, but this time he was already waiting. That was something that hadn't happened before.

"How can you stand there like nothing's happened" Jaeger said while moving towards his opposite with a speed meant to threaten.

"Whatever do you mean, Lord Lorydist" the familiar voice echoed through the row.

"I hide here in the middle of a plague-ridden city while Garithos reclines in his comfortable chair in Wallaceburg and TOASTS to the champion of his tournaments, claiming that he will lead a great army to cleanse Lordaeron of the Scourge! I should be King by now! I should be sitting in the Vault-Throne with Garithos' head, along with Calia Menethil's and all the other nobles, hanging from the rafters! And what have your people done to help me?! NOTHING!" Jaeger spat.

Yet the other cloaked figure remained perfectly still. "We gave you the chance you needed. With Terenas dead Lordaeron was leaderless and weak, but it seems your idiocy outweighs your ambition"

"You bastard!" Jaeger screamed, pulling a dagger from beneath the cloth on his cloak. "Lordaeron is mine! The world will know the true King as Jaeger Lorydist!" he charged the figure, the ornate dagger flashing forward.

The Cultist silently raised his arm and pointed a finger towards his oncoming foe. With a flash of green light Jaeger stopped in mid-stride, his legs giving way. On his knees, he looked up at the black figure that seemed to grow taller as it neared.

"We were the ones behind Terenas' death. Arthas Menethil is a Death Knight of the Scourge, and the chosen one of the Lich King. Your fate has already been predetermined by the Lich King" he said, moving closer.

"What?!" Jaeger screamed as he tried to move away from the menacing persona.

"You look rather fitting on your knees, little human" Jaeger's one time ally then chuckled. "As I said, it has been pre-ordained. Your blindness to the greater truth made you a pawn and now that Lordaeron lies in ashes, your usefulness has ended. Goodbye Jaeger Lorydist" the black-cloaked man spoke, waving to the darkness of the alleyway.

Something moved in the shadows. Jaeger began to mumble incoherently, still trying to free his legs from the spell of binding. A yellow, skeletal hand appeared from the alleyway, followed by a human silhouette. When the thing came into full light, it was a horrifying living corpse, a festering zombie.

Slowly it made its way towards Jaeger. Then another appeared from the alley, and another, and another: their slow steps a torment worse than death.

"I have been betrayed…" Jaeger whispered, then began to scream "NO! I AM THE TRUE KING OF LORDAERON! YOU CAN'T DO THIS! I AM KING! I'LL HAVE YOUR HEAD!"

He continued screaming his oath, even as the zombies bit deeply into his flesh. The figure cloaked in black looked on without mercy, and when the deed was done, left the dying city.

Quel'thalas, the Outer Gate

Sylvanas pulled back on the bow as hard as she could, until her muscles began to quiver. The damnable Death Knight took the bait and dodged the second arrow she'd shot at him.

NOW!

"Dodge that!" the elf general yelled.

The projectile flew from her _Onesight, _leaving a wake of blue steam behind it. Arthas turned, far too slow, just able to see the arrow flying towards his head. Sylvanas saw his eyes pump open…was it fear? In either case, it was over too quick to understand.

The Death Knight, unable to block this arrow with his runeblade let go of the weapon with his left hand and threw it up above his face as a shield. With a _thunk! _the arrow dug deep into his left arm.

"_Vala nah shin du_!" she cursed. Sylvanas hadn't expected him to take the hit with his arm.

Eyes appeared behind the onyx armor, a black hatred emanating from them. Even from this distance, Sylvanas could feel his killing aura.

Arthas slowly opened a pack that hung at his mount, and with a handful of hair, pulled an elven head out. He threw the head at Sylvanas' feet.

Sylvanas felt as if a bolt of ice hit her as she recognized the face. It was that of her noble grandfather, one of the first elves in the Ranger Corps. He had retired to Windrunner Spire near Windrunner Village several thousand years ago, always a respected and highly admired elf.

"You bastard…" she spat, her voice steely with hatred.

"An head for an arm" the Death Knight laughed even as he pulled the arrow out of his left arm. Blood oozed from beneath the wound, but he made it look like it was nothing. "I knew that old Nylis Windrunner was something akin to family to you. I thought I might reunite some generations"

Sylvanas pulled another arrow from her quiver as fast as lightning, but before she could get her shot off a group of warriors appeared at her side, with the Scourge right at their heels. The battle engulfed their small arena, and again, the Ranger and the Death Knight had been separated.

"I'll see you suffer a fate worse than death, elf" he said towards the elven female.

"_Shorel'aran_, don't die yet, because I'll be the one who does the killing. And when I have your head, I'll serve it on a platter to your paltry Lich King. For my grandfather, and all the others you've slain in your atrocities in Quel'thalas. Justice will come" Sylvanas replied before she lost sight of the hulking figure amongst the battle.

Battle cries were still rising, the fighting getting more intense. Shimmers like that of heat on a broiling day surrounded sorcerers as their called upon magics beyond any mortal race's comprehending, obliterating dozens of undead at a time. The warriors without equal in training and experience hacked and slashed with expert precision, dancing about their enemies as if in a play. Arrows, most never missing, rained down from all sides.

"_Bash'a no falor talah_!"

"_Anar'alor_ _belore_!"

"For the Scourge!"

"The Lich King's will!"

The battle raged on for a long hours, Sylvanas pulling reserves from behind the gate and through the few hidden paths they had left to southern Quel'thalas.

Both sides played at their battle like a song of ice and fire, the elves unveiling new tricks each time it seemed the Scourge had them beat. The battlemages at one point banded together and created a massive funnel of wind that threw back anything in its great cone's radius. Another time, a manabomb was exploded behind the lines of the army of the dead. A mage transported a battalion of the best swordsmen the elves could offer into the middle of the undead creating confusion as they took out the necromancer's that held their minions together with their mana, but not before a dreadful spell of death and decay was cast on them, ending the quick counter-offensive.

"Ranger General! Lightguard Bashal'ador reports that his position will become untenable soon!" her second in command, Haldron Brightwing reported, his once gleaming green and gold armor covered in blood and soot.

Halduron Brightwing had served with her since her appointment the office of Ranger General. In fact, he had served as Vice-General under her sister Alleria Windrunner, whose place she had taken when the Dark Portal closed forever. Halduron was reliable, tough, and above all, an ingenious thinker, always able to see a problem in three dimensions.

"Pull a unit from Lieutenant Esendal's troop to reinforce his position" she replied, the situation looking grim.

"The undead threaten to overrun our right flank if we did that" Halduron disagreed.

"True…this is what I have you here for Brightwing" she replied grimly "Then we have no choice but to retreat to the Second Gate"

"Aye, ma'am. I'll give the order" Halduron said, his head hung low.

Just leaving the gate for the enemy to take was a psychological blow to the elven populace. No doubt there would be calls for her resignation as Ranger General in the Convocation.

"Damnit!" Sylvanas kicked the corpse of a ghoul that had somehow found its way into their command camp.

Slowly, the calls for retreat came. It was true, the salient that the elves had placed around the Outer Gate could not hold. Even though they had tried every trick in the book and even invented some new ones, the four hour fight was a slug-fest the elves couldn't hope to compete in.

The shield around the gate dissipated and slowly the battered elven units fell back across the bridge that separated north from south Quel'thalas. Sylvanas and her chosen stayed behind to hold the line while the rest of the army retreated. It was a close call, and in the end Sylvanas had several glimpses of the dread Arthas and heard his voice screaming "The Elfgate has fallen! Press the attack! Onward to victory my warriors!"

As the last units of her force retreated, the gate's magical walls enclosed again, causing anything that touched it to burst into flames. Behind the magical wall, the heavy oak and iron gate shut and was bolted tightly. Nothing had ever penetrated the gate. Not the orcs, not the trolls, _nothing. _But Sylvanas felt a tugging in her gut that told her it wasn't the case this time…

Sylvanas and her small troop remained the guard the bridge as the last elements of the Ranger Corps fell back across the bridge a hundred and fifty feet back from the arches of the Elfgate. A shudder came over the gate: then another, and another. Walls of black smoke rose over the wall, the wisps curling and roiling.

BANG! A static noise washed over the troop. Somehow, the magical barrier had been overpowered.

BANG! The Iron Gate shuddered under an impact.

BANG! Cracks began to appear in the heavy gate.

"Hells to High Heaven…" Sylvanas muttered.

"Ranger General! The gate cannot withstand the attack!" Halduron yelled out as

"I can see that, Halduron" Sylvanas said, frustration creeping into her voice. "Engineers, brace the gate!"

A group of elven engineers ran towards the gate with tools and magic in hand. The engineers attempted to reinforce the gate by adding planks of wood and strips of metal, but not even the greatest combined intellect of the elves could prevent the inevitable. A wall of pikes appeared, followed by several lines of archers.

"We have to hold as long as possible! We need the civilians and army to get through" Sylvanas commanded, rushing through the troops that stood stalwartly at the gate.

Above, screams came from the artillerymen she'd place up on the gate. Gargoyles, dozens of them, swept down and tore through the soft elven flesh. Some picked up the body parts and deposited them on the defenders below, but there was little time to realize this travesty.

BANG! With a final hit, the Outer Gate's doors shattered into a thousand thousand pieces. Instantly the engineers were cut down, ghouls and undead pouring through the gate.

Explosions lit up, flinging undead and body parts hundreds of feet away. Even from this distance, Sylvanas felt the concussion. As a last act of defiance the elves upon the gate had activated the explosive runes tagged all over the Outer Gate, blasting it into oblivion along with whatever Scourge might've been in a hundred yard radius of it. The enemy still came through the smoke however, over the crater left behind by the traps.

The undead locked in combat with her troops unable to funnel through the small gap and pass the pikes.

"General, the quivers are almost empty. We've had to scrounge from the dead!" a runner reported.

Suddenly, a huge shadow encompassed the elves.

"What the…" Halduron murmured.

Looking up, a massive, reptilian creature was descending with terrifying speed. The thing's wingspan had to be at least forty feet and its body resembled that of a dragon, but it was naught but bones and thin, leathery skin stretched over wings.

The undead dragon swooped down and from its mouth poured a cold substance that encased anything in its way in absolute freezing ice. The wyrm's attack instantly killed the soldiers directly in front of Sylvanas, knocking the Ranger General off her feet. She could feel the skin on her arms blister from the intense cold that radiated from the blocks of ice. As she stood, she saw the dire situation. The massive beast had frozen not only her troops but those of the Scourge's. But that didn't stop the necromantic juggernaut, which simply hacked through the ice or went around it.

Sylvanas caught the beast in the corner of her eye. The thing was turning around, preparing for another attack. What was it!? "_No time to think about that" _Sylvanas' instincts shouted.

"It's coming around!" someone yelled out.

"Fall back! Fall back to the Second Gate!" Sylvanas cried out hoarsely. The elves broke and ran for the bridge. Looking behind her, she could see those too slow from wounds or exhaustion be overrun by the literal wave of rotting bodies.

"Go! Go! To the Second Gate!" she yelled, helping those she could get across the bridge until she was the last one alive on this side of the river. She quickly dashed over the bridge, waiting for the perfect moment.

"That was a nice performance, elf. You've damaged the Scourge more than the humans did" a voice spoke up.

Sylvanas' right ear twitched and she whirled her head around to see the figure of Arthas, the blood that had flowed from his left arm now dried and turned as black as his armor.

"You've won through this gate butcher but you won't get through the second. The Inner Gate to Silvermoon can only be opened with a special key, no matter how powerful the magics you bring or how numerous your armies" Sylvanas replied, shaking her head.

"You waste your time, woman. You cannot outrun the inevitable" Arthas insisted.

"You think that I'm running from you? Apparently you've never fought elves before"

Sylvanas felt the magics of Quel'thalas surround her; blanket her in a blue aura.

"_Hala nel o'ten!" _she spoke the words of power and pulled the final arrow from her quiver, setting it alight with the blue fire of the magic she'd conjured. Letting the arrow loose, it fell not on the Death Knight, but on the large bridge. As soon as it hit the surface of the cobbled bridge, it detonated, sending the structure into the rushing waters fifty feet below.

Sylvanas saw Arthas cursing as she quickly withdrew. Up ahead, what was left of her army was still moving, preparing to set up defensive positions by the Second Gate.

"A lot of elves died this day" Sylvanas said to herself, reflexively angry at her failure to hold back the Scourge. She felt responsible for all their deaths, and for the burning of Quel'thalas, and even the loss the Outer Gate. It couldn't go on like this. The Scourge _had _to be stopped.

"A rather lackluster ending, wouldn't you say, Sylvanas?" a familiar voice echoed her thoughts.

The female elf raised her downtrodden head to see three figures standing on a small rocky bluff ahead of her. Their features were blotted out by the light that shone from behind them.

"A_naria shola_" Sylvanas replied, trying to make out the three who stood before her.

"_Bal'a desh malanore. Anu belore dela'na_. Your senses must be dulling. It is us_" _the three jumped from the bluff, landing nimbly on their feet.

Three elves dressed in full battle gear similar to Halduron's: green plating with golden scales, silver mail shimmering underneath. The one in front of the other two had a head full of dirty blond hair with deep blue eyes and a hawk-like face. In his hand a magical runeblade gently glowed.

"Alaric Faltron'Quel" she said, remembering his name from the Convocation of Silvermoon. "Have you come to relieve me of command?"

"Hardly" Alaric replied with a smirk.

The other two behind him were the Duke of Blades, whom had two strange curving swords strapped to his back, and Eolas Allanesh of Sunsail Anchorage.

"We've come to aid you and brought reinforcements. The Ranger Corps has been fighting an unending battle for many weeks now. Its been seen fit that the Mages of the Ordered Stone and a portion of the Silvermoon guard be transferred to aid the beleaguered Corps. As for relieving you of command, the Convocation has decided it was always best for a Windrunner to occupy the position of Ranger General. Your kin are after all the most suited for the job" Alaric'Quel continued.

"Then we must set up our defenses immediately. The Scourge will find the fording across the river in no time. I just hope your inexperience doesn't get us killed, Alaric, Eolas" Sylvanas said, moving past the three who followed her. "The battle for Quel'thalas is only going to get bloodier. You best bring all your wits and more"

Thalassian Phrases

_Hala ne o'ten _A conjuring spell; Binding of Heaven's Arrow

_Anaria shoal _A greeting often used in a businesslike context

_Bal'a desh malanore _A greeting

_Vala nah shindu _A curse

_Shindu Fallah! _They're breaking through!

_Bash'a no falor talah_! A threat against the undead. Lit. "Taste the chill of true death"

_Anar'alor_ _belore_! A battle cry

_Anu belore dela'na _The sun guides us

_Shorel'aran _A parting

(Thanks for all the feedback so far. Lets keep it up! Read & Review)


	19. Chapter 18: Valiant Quandry

**Chapter 18: Valiant Quandary**

Quel'thalas

Even before the sun rose over the land of Quel'thalas, the war was visible. As a high flying bird might see, from coast to coast, in a great arcing penumbra from beyond the Outer Kingdom the fight had continued. Great flames rose from the forests in the south, making a second sun on the horizon.

Along the undead Scourge's main front there was little opposition left. All that stood in its way had been not only consumed in flames, not shattered and broken, but absolutely flattened into the dirt. Not trees, nor buildings, nor even the mighty runestones stood in front of the Scourge's advance. This newly blazed trail had been named the Dead Scar. It left in its wake rotting dirt and the countless corpses of those whom had fallen before it.

But the war was not contained to the Dead Scar. The undead fanned out across the land like sound waves emitting from a point of origin. The battles were fought at the cities, the shores, the meadows and rivers, to the point where the elves could no longer compete in a war of attrition. Here and there, the undead began to leak past their defenses.

The Ranger General Sylvanas Windrunner and her Ranger Corps had suffered heavy casualties in repeated battles to halt the Scourge's path. In the trees and fields they fought, in small units and large armies. Again and again they struck, along all axis', slowing, damaging, and infuriating the Scourge and its masters. Their magics and skills inflicted a toll on the Scourge previously unknown in its existence, both in Lordaeron and in the War of the Spider which had sprawled across the frozen deserts of Northrend. Yet, even the most stalwart resistance only seem to slow its momentum, for if numbers failed, the foul magics of the Twisting Nether succeeded.

Led by the Death Knight Arthas, the Scourge barreled headlong into its final opposition before the gates of Silvermoon itself: the ancient triple fortresses of Lar'ledun, wherein each was housed one of the mystical Mooncrystals used to open the unbreakable gate to the Inner Kingdom. The armies of Sylvanas arrived just in time to man the defenses as the Scourge's vanguard appeared as the sun's orange glare appeared over the eastern horizon. Atop the highest tower of the greatest fortress of Lar'ledun, a certain elven female, garbed simply in the foresting gear of the Ranger Corps stared over the landscape, across the river Cronor towards the Scourge. Likewise, at the head of the undead, the elf's opposite shot a glance at the formidable castles and fortifications.

"I have not yet begun to fight, Arthas" Sylvanas whispered, looking at the ant bed of movement in front of her.

Not bothering to even squint at the rising sun, Arthas silently rode towards the enemy wish a crooked smile on his face.

Grace Fields

Snow had fallen. The white powder covered the ground as far as the eye could see, in the trees off to the west, in the fields to the north, and the mountains to the south.

"You look forever. Lost that green look'a yours" Thorek Ghent said smiling. His own face had gotten thin and pale.

"You don't" Valdar replied. The two sat next to the weak flame of the makeshift hospital's fireplace where Valdar had been trapped in for almost two months.

"Ah, well, lots of fighting, not so much time for food and sleep" Thorek said with a colossal yawn. "The boy's been askin' for you. I can scout and I can yell at em' but I don't lead a battle like you do"

"How are the men doing?" Valdar replied, thinking once again of his unit. His cavaliers, along with the entire 6th Army had been trapped in a siege with their backs to the mountains for a long time now, since the first undead army had struck Corrin's Crossing just after Uther the Lightbringer had departed to Lordegarde. The siege had taken an enormous toll on not only the 6th Army, but the villages trapped inside the pocket of resistance. With no way to get out save the treacherous mountain passes, many had begun to perish from the cold of the winter and malnutrition. All the men had been conscripted to fight. Valdar heard stories of women and children resorting to eating dogs, rats, birds, hell, anything with meat on it. How ghoulish.

"Same as last time: cold, hungry, tired, sick, and hungry" Ghent said, smiling hollowly.

Ghent had come by several times when their unit was pulled from duties on the barricades. Cavalry had little when they were trapped in a siege, so often times the commanders had stabled the horses and put any spare men on watch in a long barricade and earthworks that had been erected. The horses that were too sick or weak to go on were slaughtered and rationed as food. The miserable conditions only grew worse as winter deepened.

"We've got to break out of this ring" Valdar said, exasperatedly. "We can't even live off the land here anymore."

"Yeah, well, tell that to General Volsung. I'm sure he's trying to get us out of here as hard as you want to. Nowadays there's offensives just to keep the men busy and not thinking about food and mutiny!" Thorek said suddenly, wide eyed.

Valdar's neck snapped to Ghents face. "What?!" he hissed.

"Haha, I'm'a just joking. But it is bad" Thorek went on.

"You've always had a black humor, Ghent" Valdar continued to refer to the man as his subordinate as he was, even though he was a close friend. "We need to get out of here and hit back, strike the Scourge while its not bothering with us too much. I know the Scourge's invaded Quel'thalas. We should strike now while the iron is hot, and flush the Scourge out of Lordaeron. If we ever get out I'll show them all what happens to the bastards that-"

"Now, now, you shouldn't be acting so violently Valdar" Ellena's voice came from the house. "It isn't proper for a gentlemen, even one of a backwater province, to speak that way around ladies"

"Sorry, I didn't know you were there" Valdar apologized.

Thorek Ghent gave him a bug-eyed stare. "Never heard you apologize to nobody. Didn't know you had yourself a women, eh, Valdar? Haha" the man let out another chuckle.

Valdar's face turned red as he checked to make sure Ellena hadn't heard what his foolish friend had said. "She's not my women, Thorek" he whispered.

"Sure" Ghent said with a toothy smile that revealed…well, rotting teeth.

The two shared a peaceful moment amidst the suffering wounded. The shouts and echo's of war in the distance brought them back to reality quicker than either of them would have wanted.

"Looks like another attack" Valdar commented, pointing to the noise.

"From the east this time, eh? Interesting…they haven't come from there yet" Thorek informed. "Well, if its fighting that's the day's business, I ought to go gather the men"

"Do me proud. I'll be back as soon as these damn wounds seal" Valdar said, giving his friend a handshake.

"Aye, the 33rd'll be glad to have you back" Thorek said before slipping on some dirty gauntlets and running off.

As soon as Thorek had disappeared Ellena stepped out of the main hall. "I can't say I care for that man. I dare say he 'liberated' some malt from the Inn. I could smell it on him from in here" she spoke playfully, sitting next to Valdar. She let out her hands, trying to warm them in the dying flame.

The young man let out a small laugh. "He's an old friend of mine; a good one, even if he has a fool's humor. We've been through thick and thin" Valdar explained.

"Well, so long as you don't turn out like him" Ellena said with a faint smile. Valdar felt her head rest on his shoulder. Building courage, he slowly slid an arm around her neck. The two didn't bother listening to the growing noise outside, slowly locking eyes.

Before Valdar could make his next move, a massive crash sent splinters of wood flying. Valdar jumped to cover Ellena from a falling pillar which smacked on his back and sent him flying to the ground.

"Guh!" Valdar let loose a grunt.

"Valdar! Valdar!" he heard Ellena crying out. Slowly he pushed up, the rubble falling off him.

"Thank the Light you're ok!" his caretaker let out a sigh. Out of the corner of Valdar's eye orange flame burned. The house was on fire.

"We need to get out of here now!" he yelled, grabbing her hand. She tried to pull loose.

"The others! There's wounded men in there! My parents! We can't leave them!" she screamed angrily. But Valdar refused to let go. The flames spread rapidly, consuming the curtains and rich carpets first, melting the thin paint off the walls. Ellena's family had been one of the gentry, the line of distinction between the nobles and the peasants, and so even their few paintings contorted and crisped in the heat.

Portions of the roof began to collapse as Valdar and Ellena made the final dash to the doorway, the conscious wounded attempting to escape the conflagration.

"This whole place is coming down. An artillery shell hit this house or the one next door. We can't stay here." he explained hurriedly, shoving her out the main door.

The white light of the sun blinded Valdar as he tumbled outside into the snow, right as the house collapsed behind him. A dull pain still echoed through his gut where the wounds had been inflicted, but the pain was not as great as it had once been. As he stood, he saw Ellena staring at the rubble that had been her entire life's home. She stood mute, unblinking, and unable to comprehend the horror that war had inflicted on life.

Around the two dozens, no hundreds, of armored men ran for their lives. Valdar stared at the way they were coming. There was no end to them…where there thousands? Some wore blood stained bandages, some had tossed away their weapons; all had the same look of wild desperation in their eyes. A flag bearer ran past him, shedding the armor that held back his stride. He tossed aside a banner embroidered with the magnolia of Lordaeron.

"Captain Justax! Thank the Gods you're alive!" a man's voice yelled out. Whirling around, Valdar saw a man on horseback. It was Commander Knight-errant Knecht Claudius of the Luminary Knights of Lordaeron, his direct superior. Even after all the battles the two had fought together, he had never seen the Commander Knight's face so distraught.

"Justax, you need to get out of here! The undead traveled through the mountain passes we thought blocked. The bastards flanked us! They broke through the Eastern Fold and rolled up the army." Claudius said, wincing at the bleeding wound on his neck which stained his grey beard red.

"Lord General Volsung-" Valdar tried to make sense of the situation.

"Missing! I'm using what men I have to hold at this town here and buy time for the army to retreat. By the grace of the Light we might save the lives of these thousands, even if it means giving ours" Claudius said, waving his hands about in a fashion that a crazy man might.

"But sir, to stand in the face of such an assault with so few men means unavoidable death!" Valdar tried to argue.

"The Knights Luminary are more than willing to lay down their lives for Lordaeron." he said with a smile. "Justax, take this" he handed Valdar a piece of parchment. On it was messily scribbled,

_By the honor of Knecht Claudius, Commander Knight-Errant of the Luminary Knights of Lordaeron, Captain Valdar Justax is awarded the battlefield commission of Colonel Commander of the 6__th__ Army of the __Alliance_

"As my last order to you, get out of here!" he continued. "Escape to the woods! Gather as many men as you can and continue the fight! Don't let this Scourge win the day! The wishes and will of the Knights Luminary go with you. Continue the fight!"

"Sire…" Valdar bent down, digging his hands into the freezing snow around the pole of the banner which had fallen. Slowly he held it up to Claudius.

The Lord took the magnolia banner in his left hand, lifted it high, and let loose a vicious cry. Without anything else to say, he kicked the sides of his black steed and raced off, cyan cape flowing in the snowflakes amidst a sea of running men.

"There goes a gallant man" Valdar said to himself as Knecht Claudius rode off. He quickly turned to Ellena who was still staring at the flaming wreckage. There was no time to mourn for the dead now. The undead were coming.

"Ellena, lets go" he whispered, tugging at her sleeve. The two began to run, their boots filling with slush and melted snow. Luckily Ellena had been wearing winter furs and Valdar had been wearing a thick robe as the wind began to howl and snow fall.

Claudius had said to get to the forest. It looked like that was where most of the people were running towards. The path that way must've been open. The sounds of fighting were almost upon the two as they reached the edge of town, the clang of steel, roar of fire.

Pain shot through Valdar's gut, and he stumbled, almost falling face first into the snow, but propped himself back up with his free hand. His breath almost clouded his vision, and his legs burned but he somehow managed to keep a straight line. Suddenly, he felt Ellena's hand fall from his. She sunk down into the snow, utterly exhausted from the run.

"No more…" she said between heavy pants.

"I'm not going to let you die out here!" Valdar screamed, throwing her over his shoulder. The snow drifts continued to get deeper and the wind stung his face, but Valdar ignored everything but the instinct to get away from what was behind.

A ghoul jumped onto the back of one of the men to the sides of Valdar, tearing the man to bloody shreds. A woman in front of him fell, also too tired to go on. Somewhere to his right something exploded, to his left someone else turned to ashes as a green bolt found its way to their spine.

"So close! Too close! This isn't it! It won't end here!" Valdar's mind pounded as he trudged through the now knee deep snow. Trees began to fly past him now, the forest almost in reach.

There! Up ahead was a river! Valdar paid no heed to the water's near freezing temperature as he splashed through it. The water climbed high, getting to his chest but he was able to get through without submerging or getting Ellena wet. As he continued to run, the noises slowly receded. Finally looking back, he saw the creatures of the Scourge staring warily at them from across the river. No, they wouldn't come any further. They were safe.

Valdar slowly placed Ellena against a tree trunk and collapsed onto the ground, succumbing to his exhaustion. Around the two, people began to fall to their knees panting.

Cold…cold and hurt…Valdar began to shiver. It was unbearable. Slowly his vision began to narrow, black and purple dots dancing away at the corners of eyes. Ellena suddenly snapped out of her trance.

"No…not you too!" she suddenly cried out. She frantically looked around for something, was piling brown things on top things of one another. Valdar couldn't tell much now. What was left of his vision was blurred. He held out a hand to the grey sky.

"A..g..h.." he tried to say something, but the word wouldn't come.

He felt Ellena grasp his hand. Warmth…it wasn't so cold now. The young man was beginning to feel comfortable. He saw his brother's smiles, the bank where they'd all fished as children, and the hearth of his home, his father and mother. Blackness engulfed Valdar, but not before hearing Ellena yelling out his name one more time.

"Fight" a voice inside him echoed.

Lar'ledun Fortress

Black clouds roiled across the parapets of the fortresses. The entire southern horizon was alight, a worse burning than even the orcs had done in their invasion.

The undead had found the shallow ford to the west and crossed the Cronor River, but not before a bloody engagement dammed the river with bodies. That just caused the undead to cross over the corpses like a bridge.

They had fanned out across the river opposite of the elves whom mirrored their positions the best they could from within arrow's range of the three great castles that stood guard over the Mooncrystals. The three fortresses formed a crossfire section where an entire army could be placed within each gap, all the while being easy to reach and re-supply the other strongholds: truly an impressive array of defenses. But Sylvanas knew all too well the weakness of the system. If a single fortress fell, then the flank of the army between that castle and the next one would be open. The whole system was designed with the idea that the three fortresses were impenetrable. Yet even for the undead it would be a tough shell to crack, if able at all.

Each one of the fortresses housed one of the Mooncrystals of Adus in a great altar within a special pocketed dimension through a Waygate. When the three crystals were brought together they formed a huge three pronged key that was the only way to open the Inner Gate to Silvermoon itself.

"Halduron, place your men along the Undead's axis of attack. Lor'themar's brigades have been ordered to return to their defenses near the on Sunspear Castle" Sylvanas commanded. With her Lor'themar's portion of the Ranger Corps returned to the main front they might just stand a chance. In the skies above Lar'ledun Fortress massive frost wyrms tangled in the air with dragonhawk riders whom jabbed at the beasts with their long lances.

Lor'themar's troops had taken up positions near the east fortress and had yet to engage the enemy. Halduron had remained with her, giving his insight into the defenses, but she couldn't spare any more men now. One by one her advisors had gone to fill the gaps where other senior commanders had fallen.

An artificial blizzard pounded the undead with ice and wind out west where the main battle was unfolding.

A gargoyle suddenly landed upon the ramparts where Sylvanas was pacing back and forth while watching the battle unfold. In an instant a wizard fired a jet of highly compressed water at the monstrosity which cut though even the gargoyles' thick rock hide. The crumbling minion of the Lich King fell backwards shattering into pieces as it hit the floor.

Things weren't looking good. Too many of her forces had been scattered in the retreats and non-stop fighting. If only…if only she had time to regroup them, they could make an effective stand here.

In total, she had twenty thousand battle ready elves against the main body of the Scourge. The rest of her organized forces were busy trying to defend the Midlands from smaller elements of the enemy forces that had broken off and attempted to pillage and burn what they could. There were some victories out in the Midlands, where elvish forces had successfully annihilated Scourge contingents, but the main battle had thus far been a delaying one. Even though the Elves could score victories against smaller wings of the undead, they hadn't been able to defeat or even stop the main force for long.

A hundred feet below, the fight continued unimpeded. Atop the castle's walls her best archers fired until their quivers were emptied.

"My Lady!" someone shouted out. All eyes turned towards the westernmost castle. A gale forced wind blew dust, leaves, and light rubble across the battlefield. The sky suddenly rippled, peeling back the clouds. A massive lance of green energy shot up from the land before the castle, melting the stone and setting instant fire to the grass surrounding it in a five hundred meter yard radius. The brightness of the beam turned the sky black, and blinded Sylvanas' vision for a few seconds. A thunder clap roared over the field of battle, bursting eardrums and vibrating the very bones of both undead and elf alike. The massive explosion sent dozens of tons of dirt flying, ripped one thousand year old trees from their roots, swirled and dissipated.

Sylvanas looked on in shock as the undead surged forward onto the molten ground. Anything that had been outside near or on Sunhold Castle was absolutely pulverized. Even the stones facing ground zero were a bright orange, slowly sagging from their rectangular positions.

"What in the name of Heathen Gods was that!?" she yelled out. "It was almost like a…mana-bomb" the last word escaped her mouth in a hiss. That was it. Somehow a mana-bomb had been detonated against her orders. This fight was much too close-quarters to use such a weapon. Someone had done this on purpose. And whoever it was, they must've been highly ranked and regarded amongst the elves: a traitor so to speak…was Arthas right? Were there really such traitors, noble elves whom would sell out even their own people and homeland?

Only two mana-bombs of yields like this one had ever been used: the first against the trolls in their first inception during the Troll Wars and the second during the Scourge's march to the Outer Gate. They had been a forbidden weapon ever since the Troll Wars, but King Anasterian Sunstrider had had four built for the defense of Quel'thalas should they ever be needed.

She looked to her right, and saw the wizard whom had defeated the gargoyle earlier trying to unleash his spells, though the magic died out before it left his fingertips. Mana-bombs tore a hole in the ambient ley-lines of magic, rendering it useless for a very long time in that particular area.

"Shit" she muttered. The undead quickly swung around the flank of the Rangers whom survived the explosion. "Send in the Alaric'Quel and the Duke of Blades' forces, close that gap! If possible retrieve the Mooncrystal and bring it here!" she yelled out to one of the runners whom waited obediently at her side.

Was it too late now to realize there was a traitor among the Elves? Whoever it was, they had good connections, the ability to reach restricted areas or immense political power. It all pointed to the Convocation. Someone within the High Elves ruling body had betrayed them. That explained how the undead were able to find the fording so easily over the Cronor River, how they achieved surprise against the border guards, and bypassed the Runestones without much trouble.

"You there!" Sylvanas clasped the shoulder of a female Ranger whom had been running past her. "Make your way to Silvermoon as quickly as you can. Tell them it is possible we have a traitor in our midst!" she commanded. The Ranger looked at her incredulously, blinked, nodded, and then disappeared.

Now the elves had lost one of their greatest advantages: their magical prowess, due to the mana-bomb's intense energy. Sylvanas looked on as the battle continued to unfold, for the first time feeling true despair creeping into her heart.

The Inner Gate

Salvos Fysian continued the Dance of the Pink Petal, a high speed combination of sword techniques that allowed the enemy no respite and eventually overwhelmed them by the sheer number of strikes in several places seemingly at once. It was a perfect choice for the enemy at hand.

The Duke of Blades, as he was called, had been proclaimed one of the greatest swordsmen in all of the Eastern Kingdoms. He had bested kings, orcs, monsters, and gentlemen in far away courts and battlefields over his thousand years of life, achieving the highest pinnacle of enlightenment with cutting weapons.

Before him dozens of Scourge piled high, each instantly eliminated as they crossed into his range. Having been ordered into the battle at last, he rushed headlong into the thickest fighting he could find. Unleashing the sword upon true enemies of both Quel'thalas and justice was always a purifying experience. His small unit had held the line at the ruins of Sunhold until the rest of Alaric'Quel's forces could arrive.

"Salvos! Salvos! Salvos!" he heard cheers come from the elves behind him yet to enter the battle.

"Into the breach!" he responded at the yelled at the top of his lungs, thrusting a banner on his sword and leading them into the battle.

Running at full speed, he lunged to the side, kicking off a ghoul, then an abomination, and flew high into the air. He spotted his target: a human robed in black and green, a necromancer. With a flip, he brought the blade down upon the unknowing wizard's head slicing his body in half. Blood gushed like a fountain as the two pieces, left and right, fell from the rock they had been standing upon. The undead in the immediate area began to lose coercion, slowing and acting confused. But it still wasn't over. Even without their necromancer, the undead continued to prove a threat. Magic was almost completely useless on the battlefield now after what Fysian believed was a mana-bomb had gone off. The violent explosion not only did physical damage, but also damaged the ability to channel magic in a wide area.

Luckily, he didn't always incorporate magic into his numerous sword styles. Breathing heavily, he attempted to gain brief respite as the fresh troops surged around him.

"Lord Fysian! Lord Fysian!" he heard a voice call his name, and looked around. A runner was pushing through the throngs of soldiers. Able to pass, he stumbled forward before falling to his knees in both respect and exhaustion.

"Lord Quel's communiqué'" the elf said, shoving a scroll into the Duke of Blade's hands. Fysian unrolled the parchment, reading

_Duke Salvos Fysian, _

_Pull your forces back to the Inner Gate within the half hour. Undead have breached left flank. Castle Sunspear penetrated and surrounded. In danger of being cut off from Sylvanas Windrunner. _

_General Alaric'Faltron Quel_

The elvish noble threw the paper on the muddy ground. Then the battle here was lost after all. Leaving this ground meant leaving the flank of Castle Sunpoint open, allowing the undead to surround it. The undead had already secured one of the Mooncrystals. If the fortress at Sunspear was under attack that meant that the Scourge had surprise attacked through one of the Hidden Corridors of the Zul'bashin, a series of secret underground passages built eons ago by the Troll's long lost empire...but how had the undead discovered them? A traitor was the only way that the Duke could thing of right now. At least if they pulled back now they could save what remained of the Ranger Corps for the defense of Silvermoon.

"_Damnation! If it hadn't been for that mana-bomb, we could have held this position until eternity's end! __Very well then…but if we do retreat now, there can only be one final stand left: before the walls of Silvermoon itself_" the Duke's thoughts echoed in the caverns of his mind.

Silvermoon

Dar'khan Drathir's fingers floated guilelessly over a crystal ball that pulsed green, lighting the dark room he sat in. As a permanent member of the Convocation of Silvermoon he was privy to the innermost secrets of Quel'thalas, secrets that couldn't wait to be released.

Words flowed through his mind, arcane and powerful.

"Too long they've kept me from my birthright. Too long I've suffered needlessly. Soon, with the efforts of the Lord, both he and I shall reap the benefits of the Sunwell. If the elves halt the glorious armies of liberation that march north, I shall find a way to avert them: Always" Dar'khan whispered through his teeth.

His new master hungered for the knowledge of the elvish kingdom, and Dar'khan obliged…

The Battle of the Sun-Forts

Fresh from the battles around the Outer Gate, the Ranger Corps had been exhausted and sustained heavy casualties. Taking up defensive positions along the Cronor River's northern border, the Rangers fought a heavy engagement along the riverfront to prevent the undead from crossing. At last, the bridges had been destroyed and the Rangers thought themselves victorious. However, the undead piled the bodies of their fallen warriors to create a fording on miles west of the battle earlier and were able to cross. Seeing that the enemy was on their side of the river, the elves fortified the area around the Inner Gate known as the Sun Forts, a triplet of cross-firing castles, each one housing one of the three necessary pieces of the key to open the Inner gate to the city of Silvermoon.

A vicious battle was fought on the ground of the Sun Forts, though the stalemate was broken when suddenly and mysteriously one of the heavily guarded elvish mana-bombs detonated leveling Castle Sunhold. Then, a massive Scourge assault on the far eastern castle of Sunspear coupled with the renewed offensive in the west overburdened the Rangers. The Elves began to finally realize that someone in their own ranks had been feeding information to the Scourge, allowing them to bypass the vital defenses not only at the Sun-Forts, but at the base of Quel'thalas, and the Runestones.

The battle began to end around sunset. Two of the three castles had been taken by that time, and with one in every two or three warriors lost, Sylvanas called began to call for a final retreat. As her forces passed through the Inner Gate, the undead breached the forces of Alaric'Quel whom had been holding the line until the Corps could escape. Momentarily, the retreat became a route as the elves attempted to escape the undead's relentless advance. Able to rally his troops, Alaric'Quel put up a defense that held the off the undead at the Inner Gate itself, finally falling back in the dead of night to rejoin what was left of Sylvanas' command.

Immediately afterward, the undead pushed through the Inner Gate and rushed straight forward towards Silvermoon, the eternal capital of the High Elves…

(Those poor elves just don't catch a break, do they? I'm going to try and pick up the pace and have everyone's favorite band of demons arrive by Christmas, which shouldn't be too bad as theres a bunch of holiday's coming up soon. Thanks for all the reviews and support thus far. Hope to see you all soon!)


	20. Chapter 19: A World No More

**Chapter 19: ****A World No More**

Eversong Forest, Outside Silvermoon

Arthas rode out in front of his troops much like a commander inspecting living troops. The line of skeletal soldiers stretched into the distance as far as the eye could see. Silvermoon was not yet in view, but it surely lay behind the branches of the Eversong Forest not far ahead.

He had assembled sixty thousand warriors as his first wave. They would crash upon the walls and keep busy the enemy's missile troops whilst his artillery pounded on the three main gates. Once they were open, the second wave would go forth thirty five thousand strong and secure the large commons and bazaar. This attack would be made up of the Scourge's strongest champions: undead whom had been specially chosen to harbor power over their peers, some even with vestiges of consciousness. After the opening on the other side of the gates was cleared, the walls would have to be dealt with to ensure easy passage into the city. Once that was done, the hardest part of storming a city would be complete. Then the Scourge would merely flush every building, cellar, and road in their way clean of life and proceed towards the Sunwell Grove which lay on an island across a narrow channel north of the metropolis.

Taking the city itself was not necessary. All that had to be done was to cut off the elves from reaching the Sunwell, and the quickest path was to slice through the middle of the city.

There were also secret passages through the city's inner defenses through the sewer lines that Arthas had come into knowledge of through his spy in the Convocation, Dar'khan Drathir. In return for all the help and information Dar'khan had given him, he had promised to allow the traitorous High Elf unlimited access to the Sunwell, but hadn't told him of his intention to befoul it when resurrecting Kel'thuzad. Yes, then Dar'khan would be in for quite a surprise.

Abruptly, a flash of green light shimmered before the lines of the Scourge. As always, when the light faded, there stood Tichondrious of the Dreadlords, one of the jailors of the Lich King. Those demons were the true power behind the throne, always restricting the Scourge to what they wanted done: a thought which Kel'thuzad had taught Arthas to resent. Arthas sneered at the demon as it strode towards him.

"You've done well…so far. But the true test still lies before you." Tichondrious muttered, as if unhappy. The black Prince took slight satisfaction in the tone of the dreadlord. They hadn't expected him to come this far on his own. Then again, in truth he hadn't…he turned his head to the apparition of Kel'thuzad whom seemed to follow him everywhere in the corner of his eyes. After the torment of the Lich King's voice in Northrend when he had recovered Frostmourne, a ghost was not more than a fleeting annoyance.

"I was wondering when you'd show up." The death knight responded with a growl.

"I am here to ensure that you do your job, little human. Not do it for you."

"I will reach the Sunwell on my own, dreadlord." Arthas said defiantly. "I don't need your guidance or worry."

Tichondrious eyed Arthas warily for almost a minute, as if trying to analyze his mind. Finally, he spoke up. "Be warned. It is a pool of mystical energy from which the elves draw their immortal powers. They will not give it up easily."

"Feh…" Arthas grunted as the demon disappeared into the light again. "Do you think he suspects that you've been aiding me necromancer?"

The ghost of Kel'thuzad shimmered brighter into existence, now fully in Arthas' vision. "_I'm sure he suspects quite a bit. It is in his nature to assume the worst. Now, steel yourself. The hour of my rebirth draws near_."

"Indeed." Arthas spoke. His mount slowly began to move forward, followed by the undead army.

"_One more thing to be warned of Prince, no doubt __Silvermoon__ is prepared for our attack, but if the Rangers inform the city of our goal, city's wizards might try to unbuckle the __Sunwell's__ essence from its container and remove it from harm as a final measure. You mustn't let this happen." _the ghost warned.

"How would they know we've come for the Sunwell anyway?"

"_Having engaged them for so long you doubt that they don't know our goal? Why would the Scourge simply pick up from our unfinished business in __Lordaeron__ and attack __Quel'thalas__?" _The question was a rhetorical one.

Arthas felt a sudden twinge in the back of his mind. Something was wrong.

An acolyte cautiously crept near the Prince. "My lord, I beg to report…it seems Sylvanas and the Ranger Corps has assaulted the rearguard and threaten the cohesion of our necromancers." The man seemed to shrink as Arthas turned to face him. Slight whimpers came from his lips and he bowed under the icy gaze of his master.

"The elf woman vexes me greatly" he said to himself.

Closing his eyes, he let the ebb and flow of the mental link between his troops flow through him. Visualizing it might make it seem like an infinitely complex spider web that stretched out from himself to meet with the other webs made by the necromancers, all pulsating the same color of magic like a heartbeat. Above them all, he could see the strings of each piece of webbing stretch out into another, even more massive collection of magic lines that reached far beyond the horizon, towards Northrend.

Arthas saw through the eyes of his underlings, though from this distance it was quite hazy. The elven rangers had set up fortifications on the high ground near a small town on a direct road into the east of Silvermoon.

If the Rangers managed to warn the city of the impending attack the consequences would be bad; first, the elves would likely reinforce the dwindling Rangers. Their positions blocked the vital eastern road that the Scourge needed to complete the siege as well threatened the rear and left flank of the Scourge as they had been placed in formation for a siege. The Death Knight hadn't expected the Rangers to be so persistent. No doubt they had gone days without rest, food, or water.

"_Her stubbornness reminds me of you, Death Knight" _Kel'thuzad's ghost chuckled.

"Shut up, ghost" the fallen Prince spat in annoyance. "Silvermoon cannot fully be attacked until she's been rid of. It's time to finish our little confrontation once and for all" Arthas sneered in the direction of Sylvanas' troops. Nothing would prevent the Scourge from taking the Sunwell…_nothing. _

Amberlode, Quel'thalas

"Hold them at bay a bit longer! Help is coming!" Sylvanas yelled out at her troops, walking behind a line of elves holding back the undead with their long pikes. The Scourge had penetrated this far into Quel'thalas and was preparing to strike Silvermoon itself. The city hadn't fought in a battle since the Troll Wars millennia ago.

Her own forces were in complete disarray. They'd lost units all along the retreat, elves too wounded or exhausted to go on. Others she'd left behind to delay the Scourge while the remainder of the main force attempted to warn Silvermoon of the impending attack. The situation was so bad after the Inner Gate fell that not even communications could get to the capital. Sylvanas had force marched her troops through the night just to keep up with the undead's advance and had just barely managed to arrive in the small hamlet of Amberlode before the Scourge launched its attack.

Of the twenty thousand she'd had at the battle for the Inner Gate, barely a forth remained. Most of her lords and commanders had died or disappeared during or after the battle at some point as well. Alaric'Quel's forces had held a defensive position allowing her to save at least a portion of the Ranger Corps. Fortunately she'd been able to salvage his battered forces along with Halduron's and Lor'themar's units.

She'd sent numerous runners to reach the city, each bearing the same letter: _The Inner Gate has fallen. The Scourge comes for the __Sunwell_

If the city received her letter, they would attempt to back her position up as well as remove the Sunwell from possible danger. For now, all the Ranger Corps could do was to wait for aid and stand in place for one final fight. She'd discovered the Scourge's true intentions in Silvermoon while one of her wizards probed the minds of a particularly high echelon necromancer, ripping its contents apart until they found the secret that lay behind all his mental shielding.

The Scourge's forces had turned to face them and were pouring forth from the trees in front of town. The Rangers were giving their all to hold them back, attempting every trick known to elvenkind. _But they'll hold. They'll give their all for __Silvermoon_Sylvanas believed that with all her heart. The Rangers were the elite. They'd fought the Scourge every inch of the way north, delaying them weeks.

"We have their attention! Now keep it! Don't let them forget the Rangers are here to fight for Quel'thalas!" she yelled out to her troops.

"Milady, we can't stay here any longer! The Scourge is surrounding us!" Halduron announced, riding towards her atop a chestnut steed, a large weeping gash on his brow.

"And what would you have us do?! Run while the Scourge burns Silvermoon?" Sylvanas lashed out. She'd reached the end of her patience.

"No, but we could perhaps break out and join the city's defenders" Halduron suggested, trying to offer an escape to the suicidal situation.

"Nay; we hold here till the end, whether we're destroyed or Silvermoon reinforces us. The Scourge knows they can't attack the city with us on their flank, so they'll attack us first. Their minions may be mindless but their commanders are competent"

"Ma'am, I respect your House and your command, but what you're asking is undeniable death. At least we could be of further use to Quel'thalas if we survived this fight by living to combat the Scourge again" Halduron replied, his face losing all emotion.

Sylvanas felt her own face flush. "Are you disobeying my commands, Halduron?! I told you to hold your position until we are reinforced!"

"I will hold my position as long as safely possible, milady" he said, turning swiftly away.

Sylvanas capped his shoulder. He slowly turned his head to look at her. Her steely blue eyes bored as deep as they could into his. Without words, he quickly escaped her gaze and hopped back onto his horse, riding off back to his soldiers.

The battle continued. The sun began to drop in the sky, soon to be night. Halduron remained in his position as he said he would, but Sylvanas was starting to have doubts about his loyalty. And where were the reinforcements? It had been a long hour since the last runner had been sent off. She refused to believe they didn't get through. They had to. It was the only chance for Quel'thalas.

"Lady Sylvanas! Aargh!" scream came from the line of defenders. The Ranger General whipped around to see none other than Arthas Menethil himself cutting down a line of warriors. A sudden wave of undead came with him, smashing against the shields and pikes of the elves, throwing some of them off their feet. Taking advantage of their momentary superiority, the undead pushed again, this time cracking through the rotting wall that made up the defenders.

In less than fifteen seconds the entire front had been shattered. Sylvanas dashed toward the next line. Archers and ballistae fired at will, but it wasn't enough to hold back the advance. The wall of undead smashed through the secondary defense line. Some ballistae continued to fire as the undead passed them.

"You should feel honored, Sylvanas. You've bought the Scourge's entire attention" Arthas' voice cackled. From the left the Prince's sword flashed, cutting deep into Sylvanas' right arm, but not enough to cleave it off. The Ranger General jumped back and clutched the wounded arm as blood gushed from the wound. Arthas appeared from a cloud of dirt, blood spattered cloak rippling in the wind.

"I salute your bravery elf, but the chase is over" Arthas informed, intent on finishing their rivalry.

"Then I'll make my stand here, butcher. _Anare__ a __belore_!" she replied. Arthas charged forward.

Sylvanas winced as the pain threatened to overtake her senses. She tried to reach for the bow slung over her back, but Arthas swung again, this time slashing at Sylvanas' left thigh leaving a deep cut from her abdomen to the quadricep muscle. The elf fell to her knees.

_It hurts…_Sylvanas' thoughts echoed over and over. She looked down at the slab of meat missing from her unarmored leg, her lifeblood seeping out. Slowly her head tilted up to see the Prince's unsympathetic face. Slowly he brought up his runeblade.

_Vereesa__…_ an image of her youngest sister flittered through her mind.

_Windrunner__ Spire…_ her home, the twisting trees intertwined with the stone formations of the buildings and marble archs.

_Nylis__… _the smiling face of her elderly grandfather's face under a mop of silvery white hair.

_Quel'thalas__… _the country of the High Elves, exiled from Kalimdor: the shining monument of defiance.

_…__Alleria_

"NO!" she shouted suddenly, pulling out a short dagger-like scimitar from its holster that hung at her side. The elf swung the blade fast as lightning, knocking away Arthas' sword. As the Prince reeled to the side from the unexpected attack, Sylvanas jumped to her feet and delivered a powerful knee to his stomach. She heard a satisfying gasp from Arthas surpised face.

_Do you, __Sylvanas__ of the House __Windrunner__ take this office of Ranger-General and swear henceforth to defend __Quel'thalas__ with every fiber of your body?_

Ignoring the pain, uncaring about her own health, the female elf twirled around and delivered a back-kick to the death knight's chest, almost throwing him off his feet.

_I accept the responsibility and duty of the office of Ranger-General and will fight for __Quel'thalas__ until my flesh is rendered to the earth and my bones are turned to dust._

Sylvanas landed crushing blow to the side of his head, and brought the scimitar up, prepared to slice off it off, but suddenly a ghoul jumped out of the rivers of undead moving to either side of the two combatants. The ghoul barreled into her, throwing her off her feet and taking a deep bite of her chest. The vicious creature tore open her hauberk without much effort, sinking its teeth deep into her breast.

_Then you shall give your life for __Quel'thalas__ and __Silvermoon__ in its moment of great need as it's Ranger-General…_

The elven ranger pulled her bleeding arms up and threw off the ghoul, slicing it's vertebrae with her scimitar. The world seemed slow now, everything moving with purpose and meaning. To the right of her, she saw Arthas slowly stand back up. Another undead, this time a recently reanimated elven husk, swung a curved blade at her. Sylvanas caught the blade with her scimitar, and then slid it down towards the former elf's neck.

_…for the __Highborne__, for righteousness, for justice and all we hold dear…_

Cold blood gushed from the former elf's throat and onto Sylvanas' face as the scimitar cut it open. Coughing up a torrent of her own blood, the ranger cut at another undead that rushed at her, pushing it off to the side.

_…until my flesh is rendered to the earth and my bones are turned to dust…_

Sylvanas felt cold metal pierce ribcage, forcing its way through her gut almost cutting her in half. With wavering vision, she fell to the side.

A shadowy figure appeared standing above her, flowing white hair and a splattered cloak.

"Finish it…" she whispered. "I deserve…a clean death"

"After all you've put me through woman the last thing I'll give you is the peace of death" Arthas' response crushed what was left of Sylvanas' spirit. She knew exactly what he meant.

"You damn bastard! You wouldn't dare to…"

Sylvanas vision gave way to a shivering blue, cold and unforgiving. A voice began to fill the distant gaps in her mind, burrowing deep into the very essence of her being. As Sylvanas felt her freedom being torn away, it was replaced by the singular will of a monsterous being…it called itself the Lich King.

Quel'thalas, Silvermoon

Quiet. It was very quiet; serene, peaceful…

The air was still, and the trees neither rustled nor swayed. King Anasterian Sunstrider looked out from the highest balcony of Sunfury Spire over Silvermoon city, the antique metropolis and greatest city of all elvendom. It would be a nice day. The sun had just risen over the horizon, painting the cumulous clouds orange, pink, and purple.

The ancient king stared miles out to the borders of the Eversong Forest which ever bore the annual autumn colors. Leaves of gold, red, and lavender came into vision as the light erupted into beautiful rays of shimmering silver over the tree line.

The sunstone of the Convocations' Grand Edifice meeting place shone like a star itself, each of the four sentinel towers lined with archers ready to do battle.

Below where the trees ended were the huge walls of Silvermoon rose one hundred and seventy feet. Every few hundred yards was adorned either a huge statuette of a crimson falcon, a golden king, or one of the sigils of Silvermoon. Atop the walls were lined thousands of the Silvermoon Guard, the greatest warriors of all Quel'thalas sworn to defend their capital to their last breaths. If ever the Ranger Corps failed, which in the past they never had, then it would fall to the home Guard to protect the city. Closer yet was the Bazaar, which usually bustling with business, was cleared, though those whom had remained in the city and not taken the boats to safety were locked away in the safe places of the metropolis. The other sections of the city seemed abandoned as well: the Sanctum, Farstrider's Alley, the Royal Exchange, and even the Court of the Sun.

Silvermoon was more than just a city…it was an ideal, a symbol. It represented civilization, the first and greatest municipality of all the Eastern Kingdoms. It was a testament to the triumph of High Elven intellect, ingenuity, and superiority. The city stood untouched by outside hands for more than three thousand years, the oldest standing capitol in all the known world. Silvermoon was in each and every elf's heart, Anasterian Sunstrider had often told his son as his father had told himself. It was the duty of every elf to live and die for that city. And ready to die for it Anasterian was.

Far off to the south the wall of black clouds had lingered for days, getting larger with each passing hour. It marked the coming of the Scourge.

"So they come for this city. They shall not find it an easy prey! Not while elves yet labor to fight every bloody inch of these roads, houses, alleys, and towers! Silvermoon will live with the ages. The Eternal City is not allowed to die. By the Light with every fiber of strength in me, whether a good or bad king I have been, I will defend my home with vigor and valiance worthy of all the heroes of the past!" Anasterian shouted out in defiance. The black army marched closer, and the old King raised a strong hand which gripped a golden hilt with an emerald blade which shone with brilliance unmatched.

A slight wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of smoke and death. Silvermoon's most pivotal moments were about to take place.

Outside the Walls of Silvermoon

Before the army of the dead stood Silvermoon; defiant of age and peril, the city's walls untouched for so long. Crimson hawk banners fluttered from the walls. Great golden-sunstone towers rose from its deepest districts. Buildings bore stained glass windows of deep purples, bright azure, hearty greens, and brilliant reds.

It took the remainder of the day and night to re-shift forces to a siege position after Sylvanas had been dealt with. Unfortunately, a small group of a few hundred elves broke out of the encirclement and escaped. Even with the undead hot on their tail, they'd made it to Silvermoon early the next morning. If the elves had had any high commanding officers in that group of ragged survivors, then they would have informed the city of the Scourge's intentions. It would be a race of time. How quickly could the Scourge have defeat and sack Silvermoon before the elves used their spells to transport the Sunwell's magical essence?

To slow the process, Arthas had sent his top agent within the city to deal with the elves sorcerers. Dar'khan would delay them…

"It is time to start, my lord Arthas" one of the cultist minions of the Death Knight spoke, raising a hood to reveal a pallid and tattooed face.

"Thus ends the elves' era. Let them taste the horror of those who stand against the Scourge" Arthas replied.

Cranking noises from the catapults and meatwagons signaled the sounds of the battle. As if at one, the artillery batteries let loose their payloads of rock, flame, and the corpses of the dead from the battles throughout Quel'thalas upon the beleaguered city. Greasy black smoke traced the arcs where the munitions dropped on the city, crushing houses, exploding in streets, and lighting items on fire. The sounds of war echoed over Silvermoon.

It was a spectacle of total war. De-mounting, Arthas strode along the artillery pieces firing. Just behind them was the second wave, prepared to storm the city. From the forest massive rectangular siege towers on wheels began to appear, as tall as the walls themselves.

The Scourge had put good use to the bountiful forests of Quel'thalas, using them to build the massive and numerous engines of war it had lacked before: onagers, trebuchets, meatwagons, the siege towers, catapults, ladders, mangonels, and rams, all made from the same forests that the elves believed would protect them.

From the walls it seemed like sheets of flame were being thrown off the flag strewn battlements as arrows set on fire were loosed from bows. Scorpions and ballista mounted on the ramparts also fired back, cutting swathes in the formations of undead. One meatwagon close to the Prince burst into flames along with its crew as a scorpion round soaked in liquid flame hit with deadly accuracy from almost four hundred meters away. The flame refused to die out. Such was the work of elven pyromancers; magical fire that would not die. As if in retaliation, one round of artillery from the Scourge's liens skirted the top of the outer wall, taking with it a score of elven guardsmen.

Seven frost wyrms swooped down amongst a cloud of gargoyles darkening the already smoke filled sky. Automated sentinel towers built over Silvermoon's long existence fired bolts of lightning and nature magic in retaliation.

Patches of forest broke the contiguity of the army as it moved forward, thickening some positions while thinning others. To those on the walls, it was no mere army: it was an ocean, sweeping over dry land in tides and currents, ready to smash upon the walls.

"Land will give to water eventually." Arthas mused.

By the time the artillery had begun firing, the waves of fodder had already begun to surround all Silvermoon in a massive semi-circle, overrunning outposts and smaller outlying towns. Little, if any, resistance was put up outside of the city itself. Arthas surveyed the scene with satisfaction. Slowly, a noose was falling around the city. Battering rams advancing under heavy fire towards the three gates. When one ram's crew was slain by the judgment of the enemy's arrows, more minions would simply take their place, leaving a trail of feathered arrow tails and undead behind them.

It took no more than two hours to completely cut of the city from the outside. The rest of the day was spent dueling with the enemy's ranged forces, and that night the fires of the battlefield offered plenty of light for renewed assaults on the gates. By the morning, the ground could not be seen near the entrance barriers as so many corpses were piled up.

As the sun rose it showed the battlefield for what it was. Much of the grass had been turned to mud by the footsteps of thousands and the pounding of missed artillery rounds. Forests of arrows poked out from the ground and a carpet of bodies lay from the tree line to the city. Many of the great towers of the city had fallen in the barrages.

The few rams that had reached the gate were on fire, covered in burning oil. Even so, the undead, not feeling the pain, continued to smash away at the great metallic gates. The walls now bore many craters and scars from the impacts of the artillery and smoke rose in great pillars from the city. Finally, with a great cracking sound, one of the gates was thrown open by one of the blazing battering rams.

Overhead, the sky began to darken again. Arthas looked up to see black clouds bubbling and brewing unnaturally fast. Great thunderheads covered the blue sky. The temperature plummeted quickly as cold winds picked up, first gently, then harder, and then as if a great gale was blowing in from the sea. The fierce winds produced a stinging rain that pelted Arthas' face. The rain soon turned to dangerously large hail the size of a un-gauntleted fist. Arthas pulled his hands over his head to shield him from the massive bullets that flew from the sky. Siege towers had holes punched through them, ghouls were shredded, abominations howled in pain and tried to swat at the torrent. Purple lightning tore from the clouds leaving massive bursts of thunder and scorched earth behind.

Some of the gargoyles began to lose their balance and tossed about in the wind like children's toys. The heavier frost wyrms were able to keep in the air, but just barely. The elven conjured squall tore branches and leaves off trees, even began to uproot some which fell on the hapless undead. If there was hell upon Azeroth, it resembled the fight taking place.

The siege towers were now being brought up in numbers, dozens of them reaching for the sky like giants. They were filled to the brim with undead warriors prepared to do their master's bidding. The artillery began to focus its fire on a weak section of the wall, which quickly began to crumble under the combined might of hundreds of siege engines.

"Forward!" Arthas yelled out at the top of his lungs trying to overcome the roaring sound of the storm "To the walls!" The snow and ice was now knee deep. The entire face of the lands around Silvermoon had been changed in mere minutes. In the midst of the snow and fire, below and within the great towers of Silvermoon, the bloody fight raged on.

Silvermoon, the Bazaar, Third Day of the Battle

The cobbles ran red from spill wine and blood. Protective suncloth tarp hung between buildings that shielded patrons from the punishing beams from above were alight. In the skies, massive balls of flaming shot rained down. Fierce fires burned across the city, cutting off districts and trapping elves unfortunate enough to be stuck in their isolated pockets.

A swirling snow, then a battering rain, then sudden peace threw the weather into chaos. The massive magically conjured cyclone howled through the streets and fields, tearing apart the Scourge's neat formations. The sky was black with either cloud or smoke, the eye couldn't tell. The Guilds Bank, which had until a little while ago been bustling with members of all species trading their goods had crumbled into ruin. Trees once lining the streets had fallen or been cut to create barricades.

"Andu falas!" Alaric'Faltron Quel cried out. Beneath an incoming group of undead the ground picked up tempature immediately, cracking the tiled floor sending flames shooting up in jets. The undead writhed for a moment before being cast into the wind as ashes.

Two days ago when the fight with Sylvanas was lost, Halduron led a force of remaining elves and broke through the surrounding force and escaped just barely to the walls of Silvermoon. There hadn't even been time between that battle and the next to separate the remaining few Rangers and the City Guard. They had simply been thrown into the mix.

"My Lord, the Bazaar is lost! Acting Ranger-General Lor'themar has assumed command of the battlefield and ordered us to pull back to the West Commons and put up a defense there!" a shout came from somewhere. Alaric couldn't from whom due to the massive throng that choked the open plaza.

There couldn't be a retreat during a heated battle like this. If the elves disengaged the undead would pounce upon their backs. They would have to clear the enemy first.

"Eolas! With me! Same time, the _Rotating Sun!" _Alaric cried out to Eolas, a longtime friend and comrade. Eolas swung a bloody head around to nod in acknowledgement. Alaric noted his wide eyes. The Spiraling Sun was a forbidden spell, one that put far too much pressure on the caster's body.

Eolas pulled his trident from the body of a nerubian spider and ran over to Alaric's position. This spell was far too taxing for just one creator. In unison the two chanted the unsealing words for the spell and thrust their hands forward and out to complete the magical ability. A swirling helix of golden chains of energy rose from their feet, stretching to the clouds. The helix tore open a hole in the cloud ceiling like that of a hurricane's eye. From beyond, a beam of incinerating light came forth and utterly obliterated everything in its path. The beam dissipated quickly, but not before clearing a path through building rubble and melting away the undead still fighting in the Bazaar. Arthas panted, sweat running down his face in rivers. The fight was hard, and the spell even harder. But there could be no resting just yet.

"To the Commons!" the cry was taken up, and the elves broke into a desperate run, the undead close on their tails. Alaric saw a hawk banner of Silvermoon fall and was suddenly struck with a bad feeling.

"_An omen_" his mind repeated, even though he tried to shut out the thought.

All around the dwindling group of elves assigned to protect the Bazaar the city was falling to pieces. The damage was even worse here in the western quarters. Breathing heavily, legs burning, the elves ran past and through the ruins of their homes and shops.

They passed several archers atop a bridge fired at a frost wyrm, a makeshift hospital, and a fallen statue of Dath'remar Sunstrider, founer of the city. A catapult round smashed into one of the towers somewhere off to the right, sending it crashing down with a bone shaking reverberation.

The remnants of Alaric's regiment, now only a few hundred strong, entered into a tunnel that ran under the dense buildings above. Alaric remembered the times he had in this city. He had been native from one of the outlying towns, but had often frequented the city, especially when he joined the Ranger Corps. When his father had been disgraced, he had had to resign his commission and take the empty seat on the Convocation; after all, a Quel always had to be seated on the Convocation, seeing as how they were a distant offshoot branch of the royal family. Politics had never interested him before, but he grew a liking for them in his time in the elves legislative body. Now the great dome of the Convocation Hall lay gutted and robbed of its former beauty. In over a hundred and fifty years of life he had never seen, nor remembered seeing, the despair etched onto the faces of Silvermoon's protectors and inhabitants he saw now.

A light appeared at the end of the tunnel, and by the time they reached the end, the wind, smoke, and battle became visible again. In the Western Commons (a large open space in the city dotted with a few buildings here and there) brutal urban fighting was taking place between the beleaguered elven defenses and the undead. Alaric was about to send his men into the fray when suddenly a battered elf rode up to them on a mount.

"I am Eldaris Exetus, Commander of the City Guard. You are to take your men and hold the docks as long as possible" he commanded.

"What!?" Alaric's mouth fell open. "You're about to collapse! You need reinforcements here!"

"That's known. Now, go hold the docks. We will be evacuating the Commons soon enough" Exetus informed. "The Sunspire has been stormed and it's assumed the King has fallen in battle. The lines to the Acting Ranger General Lor'themar have also been cut off. That means the undead have cut the city in half. If we stay here any longer we will perish. We will retreat and regroup."

"Regroup where you bloody fucking fool!? There's nowhere to go!" Alaric raged, throwing off his helmet and kicking it. It landed with a _ping _in some nearby ruins. "This is Silvermoon, the last stand! Our last hope! If we retreat now, all Quel'thalas has been conquered and elvendom has failed! It means that all the fighting we've done till now has been in vain!"

"Don't you think I know that you damned insolent brat!" The Commander snapped back. "If we make your vaunted last stand here there will be literally nothing left of the High Elven race. At least this way we can survive as a species."

"_Survive?!" _Alaric screamed. Inside him he felt something break; something somewhere deep in his heart, and it hurt more than any wound he had ever recieved. He reached for the Commander's reins, pulled them down, and was about to punch the elder elf when he felt his arms restrained in a lock. Several of the City Guard in their crimson cloaks arrived. He resisted, and suddenly he felt a hard mailed fist go across the side of his head. Stars popped into his vision, and he blacked out.

The Sunwell Grove

Dar'khan Drathir clung to the shadows. Ahead a pack of Quel'thalas' greatest agents of magic were attempting to unbind the essence of the Sunwell from its physical chain and remove it from harm. The Sunwell stood there along with the mages, a small fountain-pool of pure magical energy that looked like water shimmered brilliant rainbow colors in its ivy covered stone chalice. A golden light seemed to descend upon it, only adding to its brilliance. It stood in the forum of a square edifice whose veranda was lined with pillars.

In the midst of the battle for Silvermoon, he had convinced his friend Lor'themar, the supposed Ranger-General of Quel'thalas to allow him to help speed up the process here at the Sunwell. Little did the fool know…

He had received so little for the great works and labors he suffered to help bind the Sunwell here in the first place, seven thousand years ago: there had been no recognition, no award, no glory, NOTHING!

For nearly nine _thousand _years he had thirsted for knowledge, for contact with the great Sunwell once more. But the Sunstriders felt wary of him. They knew his greatness and his ambition too well. He had been restricted to step foot upon the Sunwell Grove. Thus Dar'khan conducted his experiments in secret. But it wasn't enough! Only with the Sunwell's direct power could he ever truly understand, ever truly be alive!

The Sunwell was a part of every elf as food and water was, as night, day, rain, and air. It was one of the critical components of everyday living. Cities were built with it. With it the land was transformed, forests morphed. Its bounty was the unlimited magic that rippled outwards from it.

The elf felt some remorse for what he was about to do and for helping in the destruction of his native home, but was absolutely willing to meet those sacrifices. It had been he who sent a direct feedback of magic into the Runestones, weakening them substantially. He had told his blessed new Lord Arthas of all Quel'thalas' secrets and defenses, and in return, when the Lord was done with the Sunwell, it was to be Dar'khan's for all time.

**_Dar'khan_****_Silvermoon will soon fall. All that is left to do is grasp the Sunwell for our own! I give you as much power as you need to complete the task._ **The voice of Lord Arthas boomed in his mind! Yes! He had decided it was finally time! He felt the surge of magical energy from Lord Arthas, a boost that placed his already ace skills above and beyond anything that could be matched by these elven sorcerers.

A Well Guardian approached, dressed in the ornamental golden plate armor with a sparkling purple cape. Dar'khan stepped out of the shadows to reveal a handsome face under a flamboyant purple hat complete with an elegant azure feather.

"Lord Drathir? You're not supposed to be here." The Guardian spoke as he saw Dar'khan emerge in his purple clothing and armor.

"Ah, but dear sir, don't you know I helped make this glorious object?" he replied calmly. He raised a hand, and before the Guardian could do anything, he was thrown against one of the pillars with such speed that he crushed the marble structure into dusty little bits. More Guardians appeared this time with a tamed rock golem.

Dar'khan summoned the magic and murmured a few silent words, throwing some of the weak Guardians against the walls which left a bloody mess, or simply tearing them apart with the power he had borrowed from Lord Arthas. One Guardian rushed at him with a flaming sword in hand, but the fallen elf mage threw both his hands to the ground, which sent a magical back feed that entered through the Guardian's boots and imploded his entire body with a single crunch. The massive thirty foot golem attempted to crush him with a blow that would have obliterated anything else, but Dar'khan held out a gloved hand and cut off the magic that fed the being's movement. The massive living rock golem crumbled.

Slowly Dar'khan walked towards the Sunwell. The elven mages knew he was coming, but stubbornly refused to end their spell casting.

"Cease your futile efforts. You can still leave here with your lives, brothers." The lone elf spoke as he approached.

"Dar'khan, you have soiled your hands. You take advantage of our weakness while fighting the Scouge and come to claim the Sunwell for yourself? You have fallen. Ever since you first tasted the Sunwell's power, you've become crazed over it" one of the mages spoke up. It was Tarris Phoenixfeather, one of the elder mages whom had investigated the Plague in Lordaeron in its infantile stages. He had returned trying to convince the King to aid some human girl Princess named Janice or Julia Proudmoore in some ill conceived plan to sail the seas to Kalimdor to escape the Plague. He even had the nerve to bring it before the Convocation and waste its time. Of course back then, nobody had expected the Scourge to invade Quel'thalas.

"Well, your right about me wanting the Sunwell's power, but to take advantage of your weakness while fighting the undead? Please…that's far too low for even I to consider. It was I, Dar'khan Drathir, whom aided the Scourge in coming this far. I subverted your magical defenses, but you see, it wasn't my fault. If you had simply let me-"

"I can't believe you'd go so far as to outright betray your people…Dar'khan, you've become a monster." Tarris' face looked pained.

"See? Now you won't even let me explain myself. Fine then, don't listen. Just…die." Dar'khan hissed, letting loose a bolt of electrical magic from his finger tips. Tarris was sent flying through the air, landing in a smoking heap in some grass nearby.

"You are no longer a brother of the Mages Guild and a sibling in the elven race Dar'khan. You cast shame upon the face of our entire species!" another spat out. He soon dropped to the ground as well.

Even though he was slowly picking off their members, each one a face he had worked with and lived with for many centuries, they continued to channel their magic into the spell.

"Very well then, if you will not cease, you'll all die!" Dar'khan conjured a ball of black energy in his hand, prepared to release it, and suddenly he was thrown backwards fifteen feet into the wall. White engulfed him and overtook his senses.

The Sunwell Grove, several minutes later

The elves had put up a fierce fight, not yielding a single street, building, or room without some kind of resistance. Arthas had grown frustrated and decided to simply cut through the middle of the city. Once his main host had reached the end of the city which backed the northern seas, he had taken his best warriors with him and crossed the long white bridge to the Sunwell Grove.

Though fight in the city continued to rage behind them, here there had been no resistance. It was eerily quiet in the Grove. Dar'khan had done well. Coming upon the perfect square of the surrounding edifice to the Sunwell, he found bodies thrown every which way, in branches, on the orange tiled roof, cases of armor containing ashes. No doubt his agent had done well.

And there it stood: a vine-covered fountain that contained mysterious flowing water that shimmered like oil on water. In fact, it was no water at all, but the pure essence of magic.

"_It seems that a great portion of the Sunwell's power has disappeared_" Kel'thuzad's lingering ghost spoke gravely as Arthas and his entourage approached it.

"Then the elves completed their spell?" Arthas asked. For a moment the ghost was silent, as if tasting the air delicately.

"_Only partially it would seem. There is enough power here to revive me yet_." Kel'thuzad replied. His tone of voice seemed relieved.

"Very well then…" Arthas summoned the power of the ley-lines that connected the Sunwell to all the various parts of Quel'thalas like one would pick up a bundle of threads. These would carry his message to every elf left in their country.

"**Citizens of ****Silvermoon****: I have given you ample opportunities to surrender, but you have stubbornly refused. Know that today that ****your**** entire race and its ancient heritage will come to an end. Death itself has come to claim the high home of the Elves**"

The voice of Arthas Menethil, the fallen Prince of Lordaeron and first death knight of the Lich King, was carried over the air through the very magical lines that once bathed the elves in the power of their Sunwell. Every thing yet living in the elven homeland heard the proclamation almost instantaneously.

The death knight released the ley-lines and motioned for the Urn that once held his father's ashes to be brought up in its black carriage. He placed his gauntleted hands upon the magical urn and brought it over to the great fountain of magic.

"Now arise, Kel'thuzad, and serve the Lich King once again." Arthas spoke, uncapping the urn and pouring its bony contents inside the mystical pool.

The remnents of Kel'thuzad's body mixed in with the waters, causing them to bubble and turn a foul purple color. The golden rays that seemed to descend upon the fountain abruptly ceased and faded. The ivy that grew around the well began to die, shedding their dead leaves. The trees and grass in the surrounding area also began to turn a dull gray and brown, chipping away into dust. The very sky itself seemed to suffer from the malady that affected the surroundings of the Sunwell, the sun turning bleak and the skies a dark shade of green.

The bubbles in the water turned into a thick foamy froth that overflowed and engulfed the entire structure of the fountain. Suddenly, two orbs of painfully blue light appeared amidst the purple foam. From within the now dry Sunwell, a figure of bones held together by an ethereal cerulean mist emerged, floating on the air. Kel'thuzad's tattered cloak clung to the bones as did a set of chains and a headpiece.

"I am reborn, as promised. The Lich King has granted me eternal life!" Kel'thuzad's voice emanated from the skeletal figure's skull. The acolytes whom had brought the urn all gasped in awe. Arthas merely grunted.

"I've upheld my end of the bargain, Lich. Are you ready to tell me about the dreadlords now?" he asked, wanting to know more.

The Lich turned to face Arthas and seemed to take a deep bow. "Certainly, but not here. They have eyes and ears everywhere. We'll talk where it's safe." The Lich answered.

"How prudent." Arthas scoffed. "Then what shall we do with this one?" he motioned towards the slumped body of an unconscious Dar'khan.

"He may yet have use to us. We can send him after the Sunwell's essence, wherever it may be, since it is what he wishes for above all. With the Sunwell's full power at our side, the Scourge will be unstoppable, though it will take a long time to find it, if ever. I cannot even feel its presence anymore." Kel'thuzad offered.

"A sound idea. Well, I must be getting off to my business of finishing the stragglers." Arthas replied. Dar'khan was hauled onto a cot by the acolytes.

As the death knight and the lich left the Sunwell Isle, a massive explosion ripped through the grove that held the Sunwell as it self-destructed, unable to hold itself together with such foul energies. Now there was not even a trace of its existence left.

The Docks, Silvermoon

When he came to, he was sitting propped against a wall. The elves were holding back an iron shuttered wooden gate against the undead. The gate banged and lurched forward. Rotting hands appeared, grasping for any living flesh to tear open.

In front of him a forest of tall masts rose from violent waters: the docks. Some of the ships were already sailing away, reaching for the horizon. The sky had cleared and the sun was setting in the west. The elven wizards whom had conjured the storm must've been defeated.

"Damn it all…" Alaric whispered, letting a trickle of blood from the punch simply fall into his eye. He slowly stood, grasping the nearest blade, of which there was a surplus from all the dead bodies.

The gate burst open, and undead flew forth. He saw Eldaris on his mount shouting out orders moments before he was cut down under the sudden onslaught, disappearing beneath the stomping feet of the monstrosities that had finally broken through the stiff resistance.

Some elves pushed their way past him, intent on reaching the ships. He was suddenly caught up in the stream of bodies attempting to escape. Refugees, wounded, none of it mattered. Everyone was trying to get away.

"No! Damn you, let me go!" he yelled, pushing his way out. He cut at a ghoul that rushed from the side, knocking it off its feet. Prepared to give his life in a final moment of glory, he saw out of the corner of his eye a small elven girl under an empty gang plank, sucking her thumb while watching the spectacle.

Feeling the pain in his heart again, he made his decision. He dove towards the little girl.

"Where are your parents?" he asked. The little girl didn't reply. She seemed catatonic, unable to break her gaze on the wounded, the fight, and those running away. Unable to waste time he threw the little girl over his shoulder and jumped the distance over the foamy water onto the last tied up ship, barely making the jump.

He tried to toss the girl onto the deck, sending her skittering as he banged into the side of the boat, just able to grasp the side railings. Strong hands helped him onto the slippery deck where he simply collapsed and lolled over on his side. Though the sun had just slipped under the horizon, before Alaric's eyes the sky was lit up with the flames that were consuming Silvermoon. On the docks those unable to make it to the boats were slowly herded towards the water's edge by the undead. First one, then two, then whole scores of them began to jump, rather taking their chances in the icy northern waters than against the Scourge. None of them would make it far. The undead had conquered Quel'thalas. By midnight Alaric knew there would be nothing living in Silvermoon.

Alaric watched the fiery city in silence while others cried and others turned their backs. The pain in Alaric's heart seemed to rip at his very guts. There weren't that many boats after all, just a dozen or so. There were no other ships at sea, at least not within an elf eye's range. The small refugee flotilla made its way into the black seas and the land grew distant.

"What do we do now, Alaric?" a familiar voice broke his concentration. He turned to see Eolas, his face barely visible in the darkness. Somehow he'd escaped the fight as well.

"Survive." he replied monotonously, hating every letter of the word. "Survive to fight another day. Survive…for vengeance…."

Silvermoon in all is strength stood valiantly against the Scourge those three days and nights, slaying as many undead as had been along their entire campaign in Quel'thalas. In the end though, it was for naught. The undead broke through the defenses and slew every last being in the capitol of the High Elves, turning the once vibrant beacon of civilization a smoking ruin.

_The Fall of Quel'thalas_

_Arthas and his Scourge invaded Quel'Thalas and laid siege to the elves' crumbling defenses. SylvanasWindrunner, the Ranger-General of Silvermoon, put up a valiant fight, but Arthas eventually eradicated the high elf army and battled through to the Sunwell. In a cruel gesture of his dominance, he even raised Sylvanas' defeated body as a banshee, cursed to endless undeath in the service of Quel'Thalas' conqueror. _

_Ultimately, Arthas submerged Kel'Thuzad's remains within the holy waters of the Sunwell. Although the potent waters of Eternity were fouled by this act, Kel'Thuzad was reborn as a sorcerous lich. Resurrected as a far more powerful being, Kel'Thuzad explained the next phase of the Lich King's plan. By the time Arthas and his army of the dead turned southward, not one living elf remained in Quel'Thalas. The glorious homeland of the high elves, which had stood for more than nine thousand years, was no more. _

**End of Act III**


	21. Chapter 20: Lull

**Act IV**

**Chapter 20: Lull**

Port Hope's Rise, three weeks later

From the great castle at Hope's Rise, the great bay stretched out with a pair of peninsulas like arms embracing the water. From here till the end of each peninsula, which were not even visible due to the fog that often covered the harbor, ships were lined: small fishing boats, oar-driven long ships, Lordaerel gun ships, great Tirrassian galleys, paddle ferries, a few strange gnomish contraptions and some Gilnean raiders. Everything the growing group of survivors could find. If it floated, they would use it.

Jaina Proudmoore looked out proudly over the bay. Even though she'd always doubted herself, and sometimes continued to do so, she had been able to gather this mighty fleet. Some might've called it ragtag though. In any case, it seemed like enough to ferry the registered 10,000 peoples that had decided to join her as well as the logistics required to support such a population. Most were women, children, and old men whom had come running from the Scourge when their towns fell. More came every day though. Almost every able bodied man was out fighting the undead. That would make things hard if the need for a fight came.

So far the military she'd gathered didn't go beyond the nine ships of the Kul Tiras 7th Fleet which lay at dock near Kul Tiras itself, a regiment of Tirrassian marines, the city guard, a group of knights whom had come with some refugees, and of course the personal guard and mercenaries of the nobles whom had joined her.

"My Lady, the Lord Balon Swiftmane requests an audience with you" her attendant and chamberlain Erken Christoff spoke quietly, peeping his head through the door.

Balon Swiftmane had been from Stromgarde, and thus far the most persistent in the venture to leave the mainland as soon as possible. He had come with all his subjects from the goat farms in the Highlands of his nation. His march had been forced and terrible, many of his small folk perishing along the way. With so many gone for war there were few who impeded his entrance into Lordaeron, and those whom resisted he pushed out the way with his own guardsmen. Balon was a dangerous man. Since arriving he'd tried to gain political influence over the expedition and try to become its leader, whether subtly or publicly. Unlike her, he was a natural when it came to speaking to the people. Words came easily to the man, and flowed like oil from his tongue. He'd gained the support of many of the lesser lords since coming, and was her main opponent. As she had feared, the expedition would not be as unified as she had wanted it to be. Jaina doubted she could trust him for long, even though a far greater enemy hung above their heads.

She wanted to avoid Balon Swiftmane as much as possible. The thought of him talking circles around her frightened her. He'd already done so once in front of all the great Lords whom had gathered and embarrassed her greatly. Unable to even rebuke, she'd left the room red-faced and fuming.

"Where might one find the Lord at this moment?" she asked Christoff.

"Well, er… he wanted to come to the castle to speak." The Chamberlain replied, awkwardness showing on his face.

"Where did you find him, Erken?" Jaina said in a more firm tone.

Christoff flushed. "He summoned me to the red light district and asked me to request an audience with _her majesty_, in his words."

"Tell Lord Swiftmane I'll talk to him when he's done with his…whores. He can then come to me and ask himself." Jaina told the chamberlain.

"Yes, milady." Christoff quickly left the room, forgetting to even close the doors.

Jaina sighed. She'd tried to abolish the practice of prostitution when she'd come to the city but the Duke of Hope's Rise, Rychard Hope had absolutely refused her, stating that being a sailor's town, such a practice was an integral part of the economy, even if it was technically illegal.

A dark cloud came over her mind. Soon Balon Swiftmane would appear, swab, even though he'd just come from a 'pleasure house' as they were called in coastal Lordaeron. When he would arrive he would beg for a meeting and she couldn't refuse him.

"I have no excuses this time." She said to an exotic blue and green bird which chirped in a golden cage. "I don't even know where to go to look for Kalimdor. Swiftmane could easily take from me all my support if he even mentioned this". All but the Lords still believed that she knew exactly where to go.

"My Lady, a moment." A voice came from the open doorway, smooth like silk.

"Ah, Cyrus, do come in. We have no new word from Quel'thalas, but I'm sure the elves would not stomach the undead in their lands." Jaina said, offering the tall elf a seat. About a month ago word had come that the undead had invaded Quel'thalas with Arthas Menethil at their head.

She did her best not to think of the man whom had once been her lover. She wanted to try and remember him for what he had been in their days of courtship, not the monstrosity that he had turned into.

"_What happened to you, Arthas?" _she felt the familiar thoughts reaching up to her. Instantly she banished them from her mind.

Cyrus sat in silence. His blue eyes seemed to have lost some of their luster and light.

"Sir Faim'las?" Jaina spoke his name to pull him out of his thoughts. The elf's ears twitched and his head suddenly shook.

"It is no use, milady. I've tried scrying, I've tried messenger birds, but nothing works. Now I cannot even feel the Sunwell's magic. If I cannot feel that, then that means…" he trailed off again, staring at the oak wood table.

"No, that's impossible." Jaina offered him a smile. "Nothing magical is able to get past the Runestones, and we know that the undead are constantly held together by the magical strings of their masters."

The elf had always been a friend, even if he was a quiet one. He had stalwartly defended her in front of the arrogant and self-righteous nobles, most of all against Balon Swiftmane. Not only that, but he'd taught her of many unknown magical spells and lore's. Why he'd helped her with such things she knew not.

"Would that you were right. I thank you for your support and hospitality but in my heart I have decided even if I am damned if I stay in this land, I must find out the truth for myself." His eyes suddenly snapped up to look at her face directly.

Jaina's spirits dropped again. "Are you sure, Cyrus? It is dangerous out there. You might never make it to Quel'thalas."

"I must try, even if it kills me. They are my people after all, and Quel'thalas is my home. I should have been there fighting with my kin, but fate drove me here instead." He spoke sullenly.

"Even if fate was against your wishes, you did save a lot of people by coming to Hope's Rise. If it is your final decision to return to Quel'thalas to help fight the undead, then I cannot, nor will not stop you." Jaina replied.

His eyes dropped again. Slowly he got off the chair and on a knee in front of her. An elf kneeling in front of a human, let alone a human _woman_…it was unheard of. He was doing her a great honor.

"I admit, my people are often an arrogant one, but you have shown the inner quality of a true leader. Milady Proudmoore, you will become a great ruler one day." He told her. "Your people will be safe with you, so long as they follow your guide. That is what I see."

"Rise, Cyrus Faim'las." Jaina held out a hand and helped the elf up. She'd had to do this kind of service before, when with her father knighting warriors. "Your wisdom has graced me greatly, and you have served in your short time here to the utmost."

"I will send what elves and refugees I encounter to this place. They will be under good care." Cyrus promised.

"Very well. Take what you need from our armory and stockpiles. May all the blessings of the Light go with you, and I hope that you find what you are looking for." Jaina said. Tears threatened to fall from her eyes, but she would not let them have the joy of rolling down her face. In their short time together, Cyrus and Jaina had developed a strong friendship.

"I am not sure I will ever speak to you again, milady. Oh, before I leave, I leave all the things in my study to you" he held out a piece of folded parchment and gave it to the Princess of Kul Tiras "I know you shall find some of them quite useful. I was planning on giving them to you when we rid ourselves of Lord Swiftmane, but things changed. Keep what I am giving you secret. It will give you the power you need over your people. Farewell." And with that, Cyrus Faim'las stepped out of her lounge and was not seen in Port Hope's Rise again.

After the meeting with Swiftmane, Jaina took the parchment that Cyrus had given her and unfolded it. A key fell out of the parchment.

_My study. The chest at the foot of the bed. A seal of four elements. Second panel. _The words seemed hurried but still beautiful in the flowing elven written language.

The sorceress walked down the alleyways of Hope's Rise with her purple cloak billowing behind her, reaching Cyrus' lodging in a few minutes. Opening the door with the key he'd left her, she saw he'd been given a small room with no window, a bed, a desk, a melted candle, and a chest.

The letter had mentioned the chest and a seal of four elements. Slowly Jaina reached out with a small dirk that she had hidden under her cloak. She inched the dirk towards the chest's lock slowly, and when it had reached no farther than one foot, the blade turned a bright orange. Dropping the dagger with a yelp, Jaina witnessed the weapon turn to slag as it hit the floor.

Indeed a seal of four elements had been placed around the chest, no doubt for safekeeping. Cyrus had taught Jaina how to cast the seal in their mentoring sessions, though she still hadn't completely mastered it. In any case, she would have to clear the magical seal before she could reach the contents of the chest.

"If you screw up even one step, your life will end most violently." The voice of Cyrus flittered through her mind.

_Careful…_she told herself. Jaina summoned forth the power that she needed to unlock the seal. Blue energy flowed off her fingers and spindled towards the chest. Jaina closed her eyes to concentrate.

The blue magic threads surrounded the chest in a web, slowly inching towards it.

_Fire._

The spindles bypassed the fire field, leaving small flames flickering across the air where their field was.

_Water. _

Instead of the gushing torrent that was designed to force itself into one's facial orifices and drown them if tripped, small ripples of water appeared out of thin air about six inches from the chest.

_Earth._

The ethereal blue threads suddenly pushed through a wall of rock which had been invisible moments before, only three inches from the surface of chest. The rock had only appeared around the threads, showing that she'd not yet triggered the entire system.

_Wind!_

The spindles seemed to give off a blue smoke as a slight draft picked up. The core of the threads continued towards the chest though. So close, so close!

With a click, the chest opened and the flickering flame, the rippling water, rock, and and wind suddenly ceased and disappeared.

Gulping, Jaina slowly took her delicate hands to the sides of the chest and opened the top. Inside there lay a few papers, with one that bore a strange land on it. It was a map, Jaina realized. She took it out and gave it a look over. She'd never seen or heard of this place before. She lit the room with some elemental fire from her fingertips, and when she did so, she saw at the top of the map scrawled in ancient elven the word _Kalimdor. _

Somewhere in the Wilderness of Lordaeron

The sky wheeled overhead, gray with patches of blue. A weak sun had begun to set, its natural yellow turning to a bright orange. Snow covered pines reached for the stars, but could never reach their goal. Underbrush and tall grass poked their stalks through the thin layer of white powder. A deer and her calf tried to pull at the dry grass, finding little enjoyment in their stale food.

Suddenly, movement exploded from a pile of fallen leaves. An arrow flew with great speed towards the larger animal but veered off to the side and buried itself in a tree trunk. The two deer's raised their heads instantly and jumped away into the thick fauna.

"Blast." Ellena Waymail cursed as her prey got away. She hastily brushed the leaves out of her tangled hair and began to walk the opposite direction. There wouldn't be much food for lunch today. The young woman followed the slash marks on the tree back to a small makeshift shelter of logs with brush thrown on top of it. Outside the shelter the embers of a fire smoldered in a pile of black ashes that contrasted with the white snow.

As if a testimate to the harsh times, Ellena, whom had once garbed in gentry clothes, wore a leather hauberk and harness she'd managed to scavenge from a dead man. The bow she held was her own created painstakingly over a many suns.

"With that lousy thing you ought to aim more to the right." A voice called out. Valdar Justax emerged from behind one of the trees, grinning. He propped himself up on two makeshift crutches and his face was pale with sickness.

"Would you show me how to use this lousy thing then?" Ellena said playfully. Her face suddenly went serious as she remembered. "You shouldn't be out here. You should be resting. You're sick."

"Balderdash, I'm fine." Valdar retorted. Since the retreat from the Scourge, Ellena continually claimed that without the strange medicinal concoctions he'd been taking in the field hospital his wounds could fester.

Slowly Valdar had begun to fall sick, first a small cough, then a wracking pain in the wound which had reopened during the escape, then a fever. Valdar denied the existence of his sickness, if only in a futile effort to comfort Ellena. She'd gone though an awful lot in the past month. Her family and friends had perished when the 6th Army broke and he was the last person she cared for left.

Ellena had continually attempted to gather herbs and plants to help slow the sickness, but it hadn't really helped. Her theory was that it was either an infection or pneumonia he'd contracted after sloshing through the freezing water.

"Lies. Why do you always lie? Here, let's go back to the camp." She threw one of the branches that held Valdar up and slung his arm around her shoulder, helping him towards the refugee camp.

At first there had been a great mass of refugees, but as the days passed many died from wounds or the cold. Their bodies were burned to prevent them from rising once again. Others left the campsite in groups, and those whom weren't careful were taken by wolves or bears. Worse still were the bandits that now roamed the edges of the forest, trapping many of those whom still wanted to leave. The land had become lawless.

Every day the refugees would pick up their meager possessions and head south, protected only by the few soldiers or people that had armament, and every day Valdar felt the pain in his body grow worse. Sometimes he would feel like fainting, but somehow managed to make it through the days. A few had taken up command of the survivors and preached every day that 'heading south was heading to salvation', and thus the refugees went south.

Tents and other crude shelters had been set up near the campsite.

"Don't you find it strange that the Scourge never pursued us?" Valdar asked Ellena while the two walked towards their own shelter.

"Well…I never really thought about it." The young woman replied, giving him a glance.

"I wonder if they're overstretched. Well, that is if they act like an army across the entire country. How strange would that be? Other than liches and black riders and Arthas, I've never even heard of a commanding tier that lords over the rest. I wonder if the Scourge has a hive-like mind." Valdar thought openly. Ellena giggled as he rambled on. The two had grown very closer since they had made their escape from the undead, but Valdar's sickness and the constant need to move had kept them a little further apart than he had wished.

Valdar was unprepared for another attack of coughing and suddenly doubled over and started wheezing. As the racking cough continued, he began to taste blood. Ellena started screaming for help and helped the sick soldier to an empty cot that lay abandoned nearby.

Valdar's vision began to redden and he threw up a viscous, bloody fluid before collapsing paralyzed onto the cot.

Ellena stood over him saying something but he couldn't hear it, the dull throbbing of blood in his ears the only thing that was audible. Valdar's vision became wavy and disorienting. He'd lost track of how much time had occurred since the latest attack had begun as he continually slipped in and out of consciousness, fighting with all his will to combat the sickness. It was getting harder to breathe now…

Suddenly he Ellena bring a crone in white robes over by the hand. The younger female seemed to get on her knees and start to beg. The old woman took one look at Valdar and untied a medallion from her neck, placing it over his chest, shaking her head.

The medallion began gave off a golden aura as the crone chanted some incomprehensible words. She suddenly gasped, and held back her head as if in pain. Ellena looked back and forth from Valdar's face to the old woman's. Slowly, the aura dissipated and the crone slumped back breathing hard.

Valdar felt the pain in his chest begin to subside, and his vision came back into focus. For a while, he simply lay still and breathed heavily, allowing the magic of the amulet the old woman had brought help cleanse his body. Ellena leaned over him, wiping the sweat and blood away with a rag, tears in her eyes.

"The Light has something planned for you boy…" the crone spoke, still staring at him with a shocked look.

"What are you talking about?" Ellena spoke up, never turning her full attention from the sickly soldier.

"I've seen that disease take many a man as healthy as they ever could be and destroy them within weeks. Yet your woman here says that you've fought it for over a month. When I took a look at you I saw the disease in its final stages, and knew that it was helpless. Make no mistake, I've seen hundreds if not thousands of cases of the infirmed, but never have I seen someone so close to death recover like that." The old woman panted. "And when I held my medallion to your heart I saw…an echo…"

"What-are you talking 'bout?" Valdar finally managed, turning his head to the woman.

"An echo of your future…it must've been sent by the Light! Rare are the times when a man recovers from death like you have, and rarer are the times when a vision comes with a healing! It is a sign!" the woman began to quiver, with excitement or fear Valdar knew not.

"Are you sure you're not just senile, Sister Modra?" Ellena asked.

"I just saved your man's life and you call me senile! He'll live but did I ever get thanks? Nope! You didn't even thank the Light! Youngsters these days!" the woman suddenly stomped off, her mud stained robes flapping in the gentle wind.

"Who…was she?" Valdar inquired, feeling well enough to sit up finally. Ellena tried to restrain him by putting her hands on his shoulders, but he pushed them aside.

"She is Sister Modra, a healer once of the Church of the Light in my town. She came to us only a year ago but she'd preformed great feats in healing since her arrival. I'd hoped one day to become an apprentice of hers but the war happened. I didn't think that she'd survived the attack but it seems that like she said there were Gods looking out for you this day, Valdar. She was in our convoy and when she heard my voice screaming for help she rushed over immediately and began to heal you."

"Lucky me." Valdar chuckled lightly, the pain in his chest receding. Ellena helped him back to the tent that they had set up for the night and helped Valdar into one of the suits of fur the two had made after killing a great bear one day.

Still recovering from his episode, Valdar fell into a deep sleep. He dreamt of the old woman whom had healed him, who kept saying things about his future, although he just couldn't hear her no matter how hard he tried.

He awoke later that night to find Ellena standing guard outside the tent near a dying fire. The dream had piqued his interest, and the prospect of finding out his future wouldn't slip from his mind.

If he even dared to try and find Sister Modra or even go outside she'd chide him and keep him inside. Not wanting to risk a woman's wrath, Valdar waited until the young woman began to slide into sleep, resting her back on a nearby tree. He placed a blanket over her and crept quietly away.

Four times he asked about of Sister Mora's location and four different answer's he'd gotten. "She's sleeping amongst the wilderbeasts, that old mystic!", "The good Sister is healing the sick near the back of the caravan.", "Modra's taking care of some orphans.", and "Who the hell is this Modra?".

Seeing as how the 'back of the caravan' was his only lead, Valdar set off past sentinels, a city of tents, great and small wagons, and those sleeping out in the open, the way only lit by the bright moon. Near the tail end of the caravan he found a cart filled with sleeping children. The old Modra was going around the wagon checking each of the children as they slept and mumbling something to herself as she went along.

Valdar approached quietly, not wanting to wake the children.

"Excuse me." He whispered.

Modra whirled around with an angry look on her face and put a finger to her mouth. "Not so loud!" she hissed.

"My apologies, ma'am." Valdar managed.

"Whatever. Young people have no manners these days. So who are you and what do you want? You one of these poor children's parents? You know these poor babies lost their parents when the undead attacked." The woman replied.

"Er…no, earlier this evening you saved my life. Dost you remember?" Valdar asked awkwardly.

"Saved you? My boy I've never seen you."

_Ellena was right. She is senile. _The young man thought. "You used that medallion to cleanse me of the sickness that had taken a hold of me." He pointed at the amulet that hung around her neck.

"I know who you are! You're that boy I healed earlier this evening! The one whose courting Little Ellena." The old woman's eyes suddenly lit up.

Valdar felt his cheeks grow warm at the comment. "I'm not courting her!" he almost shouted back.

Modra smiled, "As you say, but you know you shouldn't be out here little one. Its cold and you've just recovered from a dreadful sickness."

"Ma'dam Modra, I came to seek what you spoke when you healed me. You said that you saw-" Valdar was cut off.

"An echo of the things to come in your path." Modra's eyes suddenly turned sharp, as if they abruptly remembered all the events of her life once again. "My boy, I served with the Sisters in the name of the Light for over sixty years. I saw the terrors of the Second War here in Lordaeron and then the horror of the Plague and Scourge. But in all my years I was never granted a vision such as the one I had today. Its been said by many that visions come sometimes when two souls connect, the healer and the patient, with the magic of the Light if one of them is destined for something great or terrible. Its only ever happened in history a few times, and even those times I believed just to be rumors and foolish prattle." Modra's eyes glazed with remembrance.

"And in your vision…what did you see?" Valdar asked.

"I saw greatness, as well as much sorrow and grief. You will make a choice eventually, but it won't lead to what you think it will. I don't know what you're destined for, but I know that it is something different than the lives of most other men."

Valdar immediately regretted seeking the healer's answer.

"If you continue on your current road, you are going to go down a path she cannot follow, you know." Modra said.

"Yes, I know." Valdar replied, his voice almost inaudible.

"And do you know what that path is?"

"War and vengeance, for Knecht Claudius, his brothers, Ellena's family, and all of Lordaeron's suffering. I've already told myself I can't sit still while the Scourge causes such a cataclysm. I cannot ignore it." Valdar answered, his voice stronger now.

"Haha, you mean to say you're already trapped in the embrace of war. Well, that's one thing about you I can say I've seen in other men." The old woman cackled.

Valdar gave the woman a serious look.

Modra's wrinkled face met his own and she suddenly smiled brightly. "Hah, don't worry boy. Just forget about what I told you. In any case, what are you here for?"

Valdar's gloom suddenly broke at the old lady's question. "I just came here to-well, never mind. I have my answer anyway."

"Oh, if you're going back, take this. I forgot to give it to you earlier this evening." The old healer handed him a glass jar filled with a green paste salve. "Make sure you eat it once a day for the next fortnight and you'll be better than you were when you were injured that day on the Grace Fields." And with that Modra went back to her silent patrol around the orphan's wagon.

Valdar stared at the jar she'd given him and began to walk back. Only when he'd reached the tent did he realize that he had never told anyone, even Ellena, of how he'd gotten injured by the abomination that fateful day. If that was so, then how did Modra find out…?

First he would get Ellena out of the way of danger. When that was done…

Slverpine Forest, One Week Later

A lone figure moved underneath gigantic redwood pines on an empty trail. In silence the elven mage Cyrus Faim'las walked north towards the chaos of the war. He had been sent to Lordaeron nearly a year ago now, to conduct experiments on the Plague of Undeath. How different things had been then. Cyrus had had plenty of time to reflect on the past few months.

He'd followed the path of Arthas Menethil until he left the lands of Lordaeron, and then continued his research. When the situation became bad, he fell in with the masses of refugees fleeing south. He'd then been reunited with Jaina Proudmoore, whom was undertaking a great expedition to Kalimdor, the forgotten land across the sea which was the ancestral home to the High Elves. But fate would not allow him to remain with Princess Proudmoore. Quel'thalas had come under attack, and it was his duty to protect the beloved land that had bore him. And thus he passed north once more, into the war zones that consumed the once lush lands of the human nations.

He'd plotted out the quickest route to Quel'thalas, though it took him past the infected capitol city of Lordegarde then past through the heart of the war torn lands. If all went well and he was able to procure a mount, he could reach Quel'thalas within a few weeks.

Rain pelted down from the gray skies, but under his white hood and cloak, it wasn't able to reach his body. Darkness would fall soon meaning he'd have to take cover from the night. There were other things to worry about in the wilderness other than stray undead. Eventually he came upon a sign post: Lordegarde, the sign pointed directly north. Ambermill, the sign pointed towards a small grouping of lights in the darkening forest about a mile away off a beaten dirt path. The town was well sized, probably boasting a few hundred inhabitants and a large inn, by what Cyrus could tell from here.

If memory served right, Ambermill was a town within the state of Dalaran which ruled over a small patch of land between the Alterac Mountains, Lordemere Lake, south Lordaeron, and the Silverpine Forest.

As the elf neared, two guardsmen stopped him. The guardsmen were dressed in matching violet tabards with the mystical Eye of Dalaran emblazoned on them over boiled leather armor and mailed fists and coifs.

"Halt in tha' name o' the Violet Citadel!" one of them called out, his voice thick with a southron accent. He pointed his long ax at the hooded elf.

"Whats your business in the Silverpine?" the other asked.

"Greetings, I come in peace. I am simply trying to find shelter in this rain and information pertaining to my homeland."

"Ain't much lefta' lotsa' homelands 'ese days if you're headed north." One man laughed at his own grim joke.

"The fee's forty silvers to get into town if you're on your own. Double that price if you've got a wagon or horse." The second guard spoke over the laughter of his friend.

"A bit expensive, but seeing the circumstances I shall abide." Cyrus dropped the coins into a pouch the guard held. No doubt these humans would take some, if not most of that money and keep it for themselves. Human greed was something that Cyrus never ceased to be amazed by. These two had probably made quite a profit off all those running from the north seeking a roof here.

Walking into the town, the elf found the inn easily. The building was colorfully decorated for the Winter's Veil holiday that the humans were so fond of, as well as the great sign that seemed to shout "_Journey's Break Inn"!! _

Cyrus pushed the doors open to the smell of freshly baked bread, spilled mead and meat in the main hall. A strangely dressed woman stood behind a pedestal and waved him over.

"A bed for the night'll be thirty crowns…" The woman continued on and on about the prices of the inn, but eventually Cyrus ordered the room and took a seat in the hall. He was here for information, mostly. Even so, he could no longer hold off the truth that he was _tired_. He didn't ever remember feeling this tired from traveling before. And the elements had slowly begun to take their toll on him as well. The mage suspected that without the Sunwell's essence constantly empowering his body, nature had begun to slowly creep back into his high elven health.

The elf asked around, going from person to person, buying drinks and food. Most of what he received were rumors that he'd already heard before. These people were just as confused and misinformed as he was.

He did pick up on one piece of important information though. Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider still resided within the Violent Citadel. That much was a relief. There were horror stories about what was going on in the north, and the tales only grew wilder as the humans talked of remote and to them the mostly unknown Quel'thalas. If Kael'thas was alive though…

Eventually, as he sat down in a rickety wooden chair Cyrus had almost resolved to depart for the Violet Citadel when a voice whispered in his ear. "I have been observing you, elf. You seem to want to know what's happening in Quel'thalas. Perhaps you felt the disappearance of the Sunwell? Do you feel the strain for magic in your body? None of these fools know, but if you wish to learn the truth, seek out the Mosscove Caverns north east of here. There you will find the answer to your affliction."

Cyrus looked behind him to see who the voice came from, but whomever had spoken had either blended in with the crowd most skillfully or disappeared altogether. Cyrus settled back into his chair, trying to look as natural as possible. The presence left by the sudden informant stank of demon magic, and he'd correctly assumed that Cyrus felt the undeniable urge for more arcane energy. The trail of demon scent led in the direction of the north east towards where the voice had invited him who, or what, was in the Mosscove Caverns? The elven mage had a foreboding feeling.

Somewhere in the Wintry Peaks of the Alterac Mountains

The Scourge marched south leaving the same trail of destruction across eastern Lordaeron as it had in Quel'thalas. Arthas Menethil and the lich Kel'thuzad plodded along knoll as the army of the dead passed below heading towards the mountain passes that led to southern Lordaeron.

Since most of the undead had been sent to Quel'thalas, there had been no major fighting back west in Lordaeron for quite some time, not that it mattered any more. Repositioning an army the size of the Scourge was no small task, and done in no small time. The country that Arthas had once fought tooth and nail for was a crumbling ruin, a rotten log ready to be kicked in at any moment. In any case, it was not where the Lich King wished the Scourge to go now, for a far greater plan had already been put into motion.

Forests had been set ablaze and ghouls feasted on freshly harvested corpses along the paths that the undead army took. Gargoyles blacked out the sun and nerubian man-spiders burrowed large tunnels from underground.

"So, you're not upset about me killing you that one time?" Arthas finally broke the silence that had engulfed most of the trip from the former elven nation. Since Kel'thuzad had begun haunting him as a ghost, the death knight had been curious as to how Kel'thuzad would feel working under one whom had killed him in his previous life.

"Don't be foolish. The Lich King told me how our little encounter would end." Kel'thuzad's bony figure replied in a condescending tone, his voice seemingly enimating from the magical waves that held his body together.

Arthas was taken aback by the response. "The Lich King _knew _I would kill you?"

"Of course. He chose you to be his champion long before the Scourge even began." Kel'thuzad stopped and turned to Arthas, his eyes glowing an eerie blue. "The Lich King has read the future like a book."

"If he's so all-knowing, then how can the dreadlords control him like they do?" the death knight asked, wanting to know the answer to the question that had hounded him since Kel'thuzad first told him the truth.

"They are agents of the ones whom created our master, the fiery lords of the Burning Legion."

"I've heard of such a name before in the company of the mages of Dalaran. They are demons, no?"

"The Legion is a vast demonic army that has consumed countless worlds beyond our own. Now it comes to set this world to the flame. Our master was created to pave the way for its arrival. The dreadlords were sent to make sure he succeeded. The wizards of the Kirin Tor know little about the Legion. For many years secretly fought off repeated attempts to infiltrate this world with the great Guardians of Tirisfal, a most secretive order of mages."

"The Guardians of Tirisfal?"

"Suffice to say, they ended up doing the opposite of what they were meant to do, thanks to Medievh, the Last Guardian. But that is not of this topic." The lich seemed to want to ignore the information regarding Medievh.

"So the Plague in Lordaeron, the Citadel in Northrend, the slaughtering of the elves; It was all just to prepare for some titanic demonic invasion?" Arthas was as stunned at hearing the revelation.

"Yes." Kel'thuzad answered simply. "In time you will find that our entire history has been shaped by the coming conflict. It is our purpose to serve the Legion, though the demons believe us to be docile against their command."

"Then what shall we do now? It is past time that you ought to have told me of the second part of the Lich King's plan." Arthas continued, still trying to digest the information he'd just been fed.

"Certainly. The first phase of the Lich King's plan was to engineer the Scourge, which would eradicate any group that might resist the Legion's arrival." The Lich stated.

"Like the forces of Lordaeron, the Alliance, the paladins, and the High Elves…" Arthas listed those whom had fallen before the Scourge's might.

"Exactly. The second part of the plan is to actually summon the demon lord who will actually spark the invasion." Kel'thuzad explained. "Nearby here there is an encampment of Blackrock orcs whom maintain a functional demon gate. I must use the gate to commune with the demon lord and receive his instructions. From here on out, it shall be them, not the Lich King who give us orders; at least for the time being."

"We are in the Strahnbrad area. Yes, I have fought these orcs before, long ago. They are the remnants of the Horde that once ravaged southern Lordaeron." Arthas realized.

"Yes, the orcs too were driven by the Legion to destroy Azeroth as we are. They however, failed miserably and only ended up uniting this world and making it stronger than before."

"Sounds like an interesting story." Arthas mused.

"More like a complicated matter. Anyhow, we must direct the Scourge to assault the orcs positions and capture the demon gate they operate for it seems you didn't do a good enough job finishing them off the first time. Only then may we know our next target." The lich motioned for Arthas towards the sounds of battle which had erupted over the ridge ahead. "

As the two approached the ridge, hundreds of brutish green skinned orcs began to appear from the as of yet unburned forests. A battle began to unfold below the overseers of the Scourge as the orcs who clung to their old beliefs took the fight to the new chosen of the Legion.

"At last a battle." Arthas said as he saw the unfolding action. "It's been too long…"

(So the new Act starts off with a little peace and break time as the Scourge takes time to reposition itself. Needless to say, there's going to be a lot more action coming up soon enough. Thanks for the reviews, especially the faithful readers Nodikus, Marakanis Iceblade, High Elven Swordsman, and Hawki. Till next time.)


	22. Chapter 21: Paving the Path

**Chapter 21: Paving the Path**

The Alterac Mountains

"Chieftain! The undead have flanked the western host! Khanzo has died in battle leading his orcs!" a greenskin shouted out. Jubei'thos heard eagerness in the young orcs voice: eagerness and bloodlust. The orc's eyes shone a fiery red, the demon's gift running its course.

"Hah hah hah! Good! Then I can finally flex my muscles against our new enemy. Ready the grunts." Jubei'thos reached for the long, curved blade that hung at his side. Long ago, the warriors of the Burning Blade Clan had taught themselves to fight with much thinner and wieldier weapons than those of the other clans. With no leadership, the clan ways were simply passed onto one another through the ever-present internal strife and bloodshed.

Atop the snowy peaks of the Alterac Mountains, Warchief Rend Blackhand had sent his force of ten thousand orcs to strike at the Alliance over two years ago. Jubei'thos had overall command of the force, and for two years they had fought a bloody guerilla war with the Alliance's local guards. Last summer however they'd finally brought an army together under Uther the Lightbringer and the human princeling Arthas and crushed fully one fourth of his strength in a battle near Strahnbrad.

As always though, the humans failed to capitalize on their victory and retreated to lick their wounds. Then the undead had come, laying waste to northern Lordaeron in ways he'd only dreamed possible with the Horde fifteen years ago.

As he marched outside of his pig skinned tent, a multitude of orcish warriors parted to give him way. Behind them was the great Demon Gate, through which his most skilled warlocks were able to commune with the demons, or so they said.

"Lok-tar Chieftain!" a warrior cried out, thumping his chest in a salute. "The axes and blades of the Bleeding Hollow Clan are yours to command!"

Jubei'thos gave a nod in acknowledgement. The Bleeding Hollow Clan, once the main body of the Horde along with the Blackrock Clan had been decimated in the two wars and then the fighting on Draenor long ago. Most of the survivors of the unfortunate clan had been incarcerated in the orc camps and then joined with the pretender warchief, Thrall.

Jubei'thos made his way past his greenskin brutes to a narrow cliff face that gave him a near panoramic view of the land below. The position of the Demon Gate was on an elevated plateau that overlooked the other encampments of the Horde's force.

Scourge troops swarmed across the land clashing with the remaining orcs who were making a stand near the base of the plateau. The undead had already swept his other troops from the field. At the weeks beginning, Jubei'thos had had more than seven thousand ready orc hands in the encampments below. Now no more than nine hundred yet lived.

Even the red dragons brought by the Dragonmaw Clan's last reserves of the great winged leviathans hadn't been enough to stop the undead. Their foul magics and melted the flesh and scales off the majestic beasts, causing them to plummet to the ground and rise once again as skeletal mockeries of their former glory.

"The Scourge will advance up the ramps and cut us off from reinforcements from the Warchief…" Jubei'thos spoke to himself. "In that case, before the eyes of the demons themselves, we will charge these undead and crush them or die with glory unmatched." Slowly the orc chieftain turned from the cliff and returned to the last of his warriors.

A peon fell to its knees as he approached, and Jubei'thos jumped up to stand on its back. Already he was a tall orc, but on the back of another, he was towering above all the others.

"Orcs!" he shouted out. At once all their eyes were on him. "Today the Legion sends the undead to test us of our mettle! Let not one stand before you when this day is done, or else die taking twenty of them for every half of us! Fight, crush, chew on their bones and suck the frozen marrow dry! Lick the blood from your axes, pluck the arrows from your flesh, bathe in the bloody snow! WE ARE THE CHOSEN OF THE LEGION!" the eyes of his orcs glowed red in anticipation of the fight.

The blood lust was overtaking him as well, he felt. His mind was becoming clouded, and his body's muscles were bulging with power. He tasted blood as his teeth cut through his tongue with the prospect of battle after so long. Spider webs of veins stood out on his rippling abdomen and the sword that hung at his side somehow found its ways to his hands. With a vicious cry, he jumped off the rock and led his orcs headlong into the masses of the undead that sat below.

"LOK'NAROSH!" The cry was taken up. Jumping into the air, Jubei'thos landed on top of three skeletal figures, crushing their puny frames beneath his weight. His sword cut through one after another, this one that gushed slippery innards, that one that simply crumbled. They were all the same. After all, humans, undead, what difference did it make when such a euphoric feeling was granted by battle?

The Upland

The caravan had made it out of the woods of Lordaeron's wilderness and into the Uplands of Alterac. It was a warm day for winter, and the bright sky and green grasses reminded Valdar of the day he'd first seen war. Come to think of it, it wasn't too far from here that that fateful battle had taken place.

Since the strange crone Modra had healed him and given him the salve, Valdar had gotten progressively better. Of late he'd even been able to ride a horse. By the week's end he reckoned that he'd be fully healed.

But the thoughts of Modra lessened his mood. The words she'd spoken to him crushed whatever small hope he had of escaping the war and enjoying peace with Ellena. Deep down Valdar knew that that hope was just a fleeting dream after all, albeit a most pleasant one. Perhaps after the war was over…

He looked behind to give Ellena a glance. Her head was slumped over on his back, slightly bouncing as the horse they were both riding on trotted with the rest of the refugees. She wouldn't like what he had to say when the time came, and it was nearing quickly, especially since he'd healed so rapidly.

Someone's voice rang out saying something inaudible, and then others took up the cry.

"Safety! Castle Peres!"

"Peres?" Valdar whispered to himself. Castle Peres was once an Alteracian fortress meant to guard the Uplands of its country from invasion from both Lordaeron and Stromgarde. It was situated very well between the fork of two rivers and beside the mountains that rose to the North West. The only way to enter Alterac through the Dornland Corridor which was a break in the mountains between Alterac, Lordaeron, and Dalaran, was through this passage. Thus Peres had been one of the greatest bastions of strength in Alterac in its day. Even though the nation was far weaker than the rest on the continent, if indeed any country wished to take this back door into Alterac, they would pay a bloody price.

Castle Peres had held up Alliance troops for almost a month, costing thousands of casualties that could have been directed against the Horde. It had been at Peres that some of the most heated fighting against the traitors of Alterac had occurred, save its capitol. And now it was to save these people. It would also be where Valdar would probably get information on how to rejoin an Alliance army.

"Most ironic." Valdar chimed outloud.

He felt Ellena's head lift off his back, the young woman stirring. "What's going on? Where are we?" she asked groggily.

"Castle Peres of Alterac." He replied curtly, pointing in the direction of the shouts.

As the column passed out of the shade of the mountains and around the bend of a glacier, the Castle Peres came into full view: it was a ruin. Well, mostly a ruin anyhow. Only two of the original seven great towers stood, swathes of its wall still broken in many places where the Alliance siege equipment had crushed them fifteen years before. The main hall still lingered, the damaged repaired. A barracks and other various small buildings ranging from granaries to peasant hovels to wood stocks stood newly erected in the shade of the ruins. By now the once great stronghold probably operated more like a town than a fortress.

The convoy slowly passed through the great blackened beech gates of the castle to behold a city of tents within. It seemed like they weren't the only refugees whom had come across Peres.

"Come ye! Come ye! The call for all able bodied men to serve in the fighting has been put forth by the kingdom of Lordaeron and the territory of Alterac!" a herald called out upon a tree stump.

"I'll be right back." Valdar said as began to slide off the horse. Ellena put a strong hand around his right arm and he turned to face her. She gave him strange look he hadn't seen before.

"Where are you going?" she asked, her amber eyes piercing his mental armor.

"I…I'm just going to go see if they need help." The knight replied in a half-lie.

"Please come back quickly. Please." Ellena pleaded, embracing him in a hug. For a moment Valdar was struck still as stone. His heart felt anguish for what he was about to do, but it had to be done.

"I'll come back as fast as I can."

And with that he jumped off the horse and jogged towards the herald. He took one last look back as Ellena and their mount was forced along the river of homeless.

"I wish to serve. Who am I to speak to?" Valdar called out to the motley dressed herald.

"All levies are to report to Lord Horren in the great hall." The herald replied.

"I am no levee. I am a trained cavalier and anointed knight of Lordaeron." Valdar blurted out.

"May haps you are the lost son of Lothar, eh? You may report to the Commander if you wish to serve." The herald gave a quip of a laugh before returning to his calls.

Valdar fumed at the insolence of the lowborn, but decided to report to the great hall anyhow.

The hall smelled of mead and wood as he entered. A man dressed in plate with yellow trimmings and a tabard that sported the hawk of Alterac sat behind a desk flanked by two guardsmen.

"My Lord Horren, a moment I beg of you." Valdar knelt with his head bent.

"Damnit, if I have to give a moment to every buffoon that comes striding in here—what do you want, boy?" the man grumbled, the dome of his head shining off the windows that allowed sunlight to shine in through the rafters.

"I am Colonel Commander Valdar Justax of the 6th Army of the Alliance of Lordaeron, 33rd Cavalry. I wish to seek to join you in the fight against the undead."

There was a moment of silence before Horren burst out laughing. "And if I had a crown for every fool who claimed he was an officer, I'd be the King of Stormwind!"

Valdar waited until the man's laughing died down before unrolling the parchment that Lord Claudius had given him just before he'd ridden off to his death. "I believe this will prove my rank." Valdar said, handing Horren the paper.

The Lord looked at the paper, then back at Valdar, and then the paper again. "My apologies Colonel Commander, it's been a while since I've seen a true officer in my presence. When the Alliance garrison in Peres left to fight the undead, I was left to command the Castle with my hundred men. Hardly the army required to man this place, especially in its ruin. Is it that you wish to serve in my contingent here?"

Valdar was bewildered for a moment, but then the pieces fell together. He was in Alterac; a country which had long hated the Alliance for the destruction it had visited upon their country. Not only that but as the Lord had said, Peres was left with a tiny force to defend hundreds, possibly thousands of civilians and refugees.

"Nay sire, I wish to return to Lordaeron and see if I can rejoin the remnants of my army. To do so I'd need food, drink, armor, and a sword." Valdar explained his situation. Indeed there were many survivors of the 6th Army scattered across the outskirts of the Grace Fields still. If those thousands of battle hardened soldiers could be gathered, they could become a fighting force once again.

"I am in need of good men, but if you insist, I do believe Field Marshal Penwright's army has taken winter quarters north west of here. They're the ones who sucked up my garrison, and now there's talk of the main force of the Scourge descending into Alterac. How about the Duke of Netherspite? He's raised a force in the next neighboring province marches north. He's probably closer anyhow." Horren grumbled as he pointed out the map of Alterac with a vein-webbed hand.

It had been that kind of attitude that had cost Alterac its nationhood in the Second War; always worrying about themselves first.

"I intend to go north east back towards the Grace Fields. As I said before, due to the sacrifice of Lord Knecht Claudius and his Knights Luminary, most of the 6th Army was able to escape destruction, though they were scattered across the land. I wish to gather them up and muster the 6th Army's strength once again. Its better a whole army be reborn than a single cavalier join another. It is my final decision."

"You have big dreams, Lordaerel. What are you going to do? Lead this army?" Horren scoffed.

"If needs be." Valdar replied simply. Lord Horren looked at the young man with a gaping mouth for a moment.

"Very well. You may report to our armory and take what you need, as well as your pick of horse. It's not like we'll need them any time soon with a force of a bare hundred conscripts. Light be with you boy. You're surely walking into your own death if you ask me." The old man finally gave in.

"I thank you for your kindness and generosity." Valdar endowed upon the old man the proper courtesies, stumbling on some words as he hadn't used them in so long.

"Pitiful waste…" he hurt Lord Horren mutter as he quickly backed out of the hall. He made his way to the armory, picking out one of the many extra suits of armor and swords, and then the stable finding the fastest horse available. The weight of the armor made his shoulder and back ache, especially after so long.

He told a young boy who tended to his needs to have all of his equipment ready by evenfall. He would ride that night. Before he left though, there was one more thing he had to do. After searching through half the town, Valdar was finally able to find where the refugees from the town in the Grace Fields had settled for the night. Near the end of the column, he spotted Ellena staring at the sunset.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Valdar spoke up. Ellena turned to face him, the smile on her face fading as soon as she saw the armor and long sword.

"You know, when I was a kid, my brothers and I would chase after the sun, trying to outrun it before it set. A couple of times we got lost, but we always found our way back." Valdar said lightheartedly, trying not to talk of the obvious. He stood beside Ellena and stared at the bright orange sun as it began to slip below the mountains, giving the clouds brilliant and awesome colors.

"Why? Why can't you stay here with me?" Ellena whispered. Valdar was almost unable to hear her.

"Because I have a duty. I saw you to safety, now I must return."

"Damn you and your duties Valdar!" Ellena's voice was breaking. Valdar turned to face her and saw tears streaming from her eyes, glinting orange as the sun's last rays reached over the land. "I've seen death like you! My family was killed as well! Is it revenge you want?!" She banged at his armor plating with small fists.

Valdar squinted as the brightness of the sun. "I'm going back for my duty; and for my brothers forged in bonds of blood and suffering, and for you. I will go back and bring justice to the spawn of darkness that caused all this."

"You're just going to get yourself killed if you go back to Lordaeron!"

"I won't die so long as I have something to live for." Valdar replied, giving his companion a grin. Ellena gaped at him and then fell to her knees.

"So I can't stop you. You made your mind up a long time ago." Ellena sniffed, wiping at her eyes.

The last of the sun's disc began to disappear. Valdar sat awkwardly on the ground in his armor and put an arm around Ellena's shoulders.

"What am I supposed to do without you? I…" Ellena trailed off, unable to speak.

"Live until I come back. I _will _come back. It's a promise, on my honor as a knight and the man who loves you." Valdar stood and helped Ellena to her feet. Ellena giggled for a moment, pulling up her wiping away the tears with a sleeve.

"Then I'll wait. I'll wait until your return." She replied in a more lively tone.

"Take this. My father gave it to me. It's the sigil of my family." Valdar loosened a thin band of silver from his finger and placed it in Ellena's hand. As she took it, he bent down and gave her hand a kiss. The two gazed into each other's eyes for a moment before Valdar abruptly turned away, his cloak fluttering. As the darkness began to overtake the last of the colorful clouds, Valdar walked away, leaving Ellena on the hill alone.

As the young man averted his thoughts of Ellena, he met the boy whom was to bring his horse to the gatehouse.

"Here yar' sire. Belgor is a strong mare. Not the fastest, but with more stamina than you might find in a lesser mount. If'in I may ask, where are you riding?" the boy asked, out of conduct. Valdar realized that he wasn't a squire trained in courtesy, probably just being a stable boy.

"To war." He replied, giving the black mare a violent kick. The horse reared and neighed furiously, suddenly galloping off into the distance.

Alterac Mountains

With a final cut, the last orc fell to the ground with a thump. They had been brave, foolish, and weak. Resistance from their troops had only lasted a day. Luckily, back when he'd first faced them, they hadn't been completely destroyed, lest this gateway they were after would never have been opened.

"The brutes have been slain, the demon gate is yours lich." Arthas Menethil spoke.

A field of blood and broken bodies covered the landscape. A few torn banners with the crude marks of the orcs fluttered in the breeze that gently carried snow to the ground. By the next morning these bodies would probably be buried under the snow.

Arthas turned his attention to the orc that lay at his feet, whose breathing was shallow.

"The Legion has…seen our courage…through the Demon Gate. They will acknowledge our worthiness as their ser-vents…" between coughs that brought up blood the orc attempted to get his point across. Both his hands had been cleaved off and a bloody hole was punched through his chest.

"Unfortunately for you, your chance is spent. The Legion gave up on you fools long ago." Kel'thuzad chimed, setting his own sites on the Demon Gate before the trio. The ground before the gate seemed scorched, and two horns of solid rock protruded from the main arch which seemed to shimmer and blaze with magical fire.

"So you will get orders from the master of the Legion through this gateway?" the Death Knight asked.

"He is not the master of the Legion, but one of its greatest champions. He himself will lead the assault on Azeroth." Kel'thuzad replied.

"The Lords of the Legion will not answer your calls!" the wounded orc cried out, his voice muddled by the gurgling of blood in his mouth. Ignoring the orc, Kel'thuzad's bony remnants floated to the entrance of the gateway. All around whispers of some strange demonic incantation resounded. The Lich's body glowed a great fluorescent blue, so much so that Arthas' eyes watered as he stared on silently. He knew it was not his place to speak during such an occasion.

Kel'thuzad's incantations suddenly stopped. "I call upon thee, Archimonde! Your humble servant seeks an audience." He shouted, his voice echoing into the farthest reaches of the Twisting Nether through the gateway.

For a moment there was silence, and the wounded orc gave a ragged laugh. Before he could finish though, a sickly green light shone through the gateway and a putrid fog floated from within its bowels. As the fog cleared, Arthas saw a transparent apparition appear. The first thing he noticed though were the apparition's glowing emerald eyes, which cut through the fog like a hot knife through butter. The thing had a human frame, or so he first thought. Its chest bulged out and a jagged tail swished back and behind it. Myrtle colored scales and flesh glistened in the light.

"**You called my name puny Lich, and I have come. You are Kel'thuzad, are you not?**" Archimonde's impossibly bass voice shook Arthas' armor and rattled his eardrums.

"Yes, Great One. I am the summoner." Kel'thuzad's skeletal frame went to a knee, bowing before the demon lord's shade.

"N-no! Impossible! The demons would commune with the filthy undead?! THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE!" the wounded orc's voice wailed. The lords of both the Scourge and the Burning Legion ignored the greenskin's moans.

"**Very well. There is a special tome you must find. The only remaining spellbook of Medievh, the Last Guardian. Only his lost incantations into your world**."

"Great Lord! Tell them! Tell them that we are the Chosen!" the orc's body riveted, trying to escape from beneath Arthas' boot.

"What annoyance." The death knight rolled his eyes. He took Frostmourne into his hands and slid it with ease through the orc's throat, ending its lament.

"Where shall we search for it, Great One?" Kel'thuzad continued, not paying any heed to the motions behind him.

"**Seek out the mortal city of Dalaran. It is there that the tome is kept. At twilight, three days from now, you will begin the summoning**." With his final instructions given, the ethereal ghost of Archimonde turned to static and dissipated. The fog that had flooded out of the gateway suddenly was sucked back into it with a great gust of wind, and in an instant all was as it had been before the summoning.

"Gather the Scourge. Prepare to march. We must take the spellbook of Medivh." Thuzad relayed.

"And waltz into the City of Mages? You more than anyone should know how the Kirin Tor will guard such a book. There is no telling what tricks they have up their sleeves, these tricky wizards." Arthas replied.

"It doesn't matter. No matter the losses, no matter if the entire Scourge is spent storming Dalaran and searching every crevice of that place, we _must _find the book, and quickly. There is no time to surround all Dalaran. As you heard, there is a deadline."

"Why three days from now, though?" Arthas contended.

"In three days the alignment of the stars shall be correct and the centurial strength of the Ley-lines among Cross Isle where Dalaran is situated shall be at their maximum. Even when the Horde invaded, it would have been impossible to summon a being of Lord Archimonde's strength into this world until this time." The lich explained, impatiently floating back and forth.

"Very well then. With all the power we can gather in three days we shall strike Dalaran." Arthas finally agreed, turning west towards the road that led to the City of Mages.

Common Orc Phrases

**Throm'ka - **Greetings/Hail

**Lok'tar - **Strength and Honor (Can be a battle cry, or just a greeting)  
**Lok'tar Ogar - **Strength and Honor[my Warriors!  
**Lok'narosh - **Charge!   
**Lok'regar - **I am ready  
**Lok'regar Ogul - **I am ready[commander. This is something that "wise Orcs" use, rather than "Dabu".   
**Thugad - **Thou/Thee (nice way of saying "You" in Orcish)  
**Dabu, Swobu, Un-dabu, Zug Zug - **Yes acknowledgement that (mostly) Peons/Lower Class warriors say it.   
**Aka'maggosh** - A VERY deep gratitude. It's not "Thanks", but rather "Oh, I will be forever grateful, thank you!".

**Revash!** - Charge!

(Sorry for the late chapter, but school finals, having to transport my comp from college, shop for presents, spend time with family and old friends sapped a bit of extra time I might've otherwise had. On top of that I had a bit of writer's block with this chapter but I'm going to try as hard as possible to get the next chapter out soon as I've already started writing on it. Thanks for being patient, Omegatrooper.)


	23. Chapter 22: The Foregoing

**Chapter 23: The Foregoing**

The Casted Vale

A grey haze began to lift, giving way to streams of golden light that burst forth from between mountain, tall tower, and tree. The city of Dalaran, home of the Kirin Tor and a place of supreme magic, came out from beneath the shadow of darkness that was the night. As the sun began to arc up in the sky, mists rose from the ground and the lakes.

To the eastern borders were the Uplands of Alterac and beyond those the Alterac Mountains. To the west, a wall of rock a thousand feet high marked the beginning of the Hettenti Mountains, which stretched in a spine up the middle of Silverpine Forest. North of the forest that crowned Dalaran was Lordamere Lake, which was fed by the river Averas. Before the city lay a great gaping field of grass, green from recent winter rains. It hardly snowed much in the Casted Vale, as the surrounding mountains held back much of the northern winds and kept in the sun's warmth.

The field stretched for miles south, east, and west, dotted with a few homesteads here and there, as well as a paved road which led to the coastal provinces. In the center of it all, on top of the former lake island of Cross, stood the city of Dalaran. Surrounded by huge arcane-embedded walls, the interior of the city was over shadowed by the central towers.

The most obvious aspect of Dalaran was its great towers. Thirteen massive spires of marble smooth, alabaster colored stone jutted out of the city's periphery. The greatest of these towers stood in the city's epicenter, in the absolute position of the nine great magical Ley-lines of central Lordaeron. At the top of the tower was a great violet crystal surrounded in a wreathe of azure magic, thirty by fifteen feet. Around the great purple quartz a number of smaller satellite crystals orbited in a perfect circle eternally.

Beneath the Thirteen Towers, a number of smaller spires reached for the sky in different quarters of the city, overshadowing a great many domed structures below.

Atop the greatest edifice, the Violet Citadel, the highest council of the Kirin Tor met; the Council of Air. Maccabeus Dolaryn stared at huge towers above himself, unaware of the commotion about. Here and there state swordsmen, men-at-arms, levies, cavaliers, and even the many wizards of Dalaran went to and fro, all preparing. Chainmail clinked and the sounds of arcane magic floated through the air. The smell of fresh pitch wafted through the streets mixing in with that of pungent potions, horse manure, bread and rotting fruit.

Everyone was preparing. The Scourge was coming. The entire strength of Dalaran had been assembled. From the townsteads at the base of the Alterac Mountains to Ambermill mages, warriors, supplies, had all poured in. Few refugees though…undoubtedly the Scourge was coming for Dalaran this time. Because the elven homeland had been ravaged by war, those elves that had survived began to converge on the mage city-state. After all, Dalaran boasted the second largest population of High Elves due to its magical prowess. Maccabeus felt the confidence in the air. Where Lordaeron and Quel'thalas had failed, the Kirin Tor would not.

The Scourge would find Dalaran a far different target than its previous opponents. Unlike those two, the city was prepared. The greatest powers that man and even the remaining elves could offer were all gathered here. With the power of the arcane in their grasp, the great wizards of Dalaran could conjure food and water, enough to withstand any siege; at least for a while. Rumor had been going around that a great trap was being set up by the most senior of the Council of Air. The power of Dalaran was undeniable. Perhaps that was why the Scourge was coming?

"Maccabeus! Come hither! NOW!" a voice called from the platform below.

"Yes, master." The young sorcerer replied. He pulled the maroon cloak behind his head, revealing a mane of thick black hair that shimmered in the renewing sunlight. His red robes signified his apprenticeship, as all wizards within the Universities of Magic were awarded their rich lavenders when they graduated.

The crochety old Comlos Astroar was his own master, a diviner who was especially skilled in the art of the arcane flame. Master Astroar had somewhat of a legend about him. It was said that during the resurgence of the orcs after the Second War when the greenskin warlocks had attempted to steal several artifacts from the Vaults Comlos Astroar's three friend's had been gravely injured about him by the warlock's corrupting magics. Astroar had then done what was silently forbidden among mages, and harvested the fleeting life forces of his allies and directed them towards the warlocks in a hurricane of fire. Of course, the rumor was never proved. Still though, Maccabeus was always careful not to displease the graying wizard.

"What took you so long, boy?" Comlos chided as Maccabeus jumped and broke his fall on a summoned nimbus of soft, cloudy air.

"Sorry sir, just making sure the reagents were properly mixed." The apprentice replied.

"Making sure? All you need to do is follow the instructions. Theres a battle coming and you've got your head floating about the Thirteen Towers." Comlos sniffed the thick lumincent liquid in the tubes before plugging them with cork. "This will have to do. Now come, boy. Our powers will be needed at the front very soon."

The Kirin Tor had assembled a perfect line of defense, placing its mages in special sectors for the greatest efficiency with arcing and intersecting lines of magical range. In support of the casters, thousands of soldiers had been assembled to man the walls and rooftops. Very inch of the city was covered in lines of fire. As Maccabeus and his master took their positions atop the Outer Aqueduct others filed around them, getting into position.

A distant horn call signaled the coming of the Scourge. A wall of smoke rose in the distance, the warning beacons now lit. Small pinpricks of jumping light quickly approached. They were wizards bending physical reality to 'blink' across distances. Each were assigned to various quadrants around Dalaran wit hthe mission of finding the exact location of the Scourge's force. At first, Maccabeus counted four, then seven, eleven, nineteen, and finally gave up.

"There sure are a lot of them…" Maccabeus thought out loud, taking a swig of blackwine. Usually Comlos would punish him for drinking alcohol in public, but instead this time the elder mage grabbed the wineskin and began gulping. Maccabeus looked on, partially amused, partially confused.

With the wineskin empty, the master wiped his mouth and looked intently on the green fields. "Yes, many..." He repeated. "The Scourge must be approaching from every single quadrant from east to west south of the city."

Maccabeus laughed nervously. "But we are the Kirin Tor, the masters of magic. With such might as we have assembled, the Scourge couldn't dare break into our city."

"Then why did we assign half-trained children like you to the field?" Comlos belched loudly then gave a word of apology and returned his eyes to the field. Maccabeus didn't want to answer that question. The truth was he was sixteen, and believed himself a capable wizard. He'd been training for half his life now, and felt prepared to use his power in defense of Dalaran. He wanted to flaunt his skill in front of the other apprentices and build his own legend, albeit a better one than Comlos Astroar. However, now that the eve of battle was upon him, he slowly began to feel the strangling hand of anxiety press down on his throat.

"There." Master Comlos whispered, pointing into the distance. Through the evaporating fog, Maccabeus spotted a dark line on the horizion. Spots of fire twinkled like orange stars along the dark line.

"They are coming…" a man in mismatched scale and plate armor said forebodingly. The helmet on his head muffled the words somewhat.

The black line began to turn into an unfolding mat shifting and moving with every second. Beings with red eyes and yellow bones armored in rusted armor along with massive monsterous flesh golems and a swarm of flying creatures inched closer, at a pace meant to give their enemies time to be fully intimidated. Torn and stained banners sporting a massive gutting longsword and behind it a spear with two frosted skulls on either end all emblazoned on a black cloth.

Beneath the city's walls, a great vanguard of heavy cavalry assembled, preparing to sortie. All were wearing the heraldry of their respective homes and families, but above all each wore a violet tabard with the Eye of Dalaran upon it. The cavalry gave way as the Sea Gate opened allowing for a single rider atop a white horse wrapped in the most pristine, unblemished snowy robes that signified the rank of Archmage within the Kirin Tor.

"Is that-" Maccabeus began to ask.

"Aye, it is. Archmage Antonidas is going to parlay it seems. He won't get much out of it though, I assure you." Astroar said, shaking his head.

At the head of the undead Scourge, a single rider appeared and rode forth to meet Antonidas. The rider was garbed in black armor and rode upon a skeletal horse. Undoubtedly it was the traitor Arthas, whom had brought the curse of the Scourge doubled against his homeland, slain his father, and then obliterated Quel'thalas. After only a minute of talking, Archmage Antonidas disappeared in a flash of light, and then reappeared at the Sea Gate. Arthas atop his undead mare turned about and melted into the unending lines of the Scourge. Shot from artillery bounced harmlessly off the shield that the most senior of the Council of Air had erected.

The undead continued to advance, and suddenly a thick sheet of flame enveloped their front lines. Archers hiding from nearby trees lit the pitch that had been laid the previous day and earlier that morning. In an instant the field was set afire. The undead front line crumbled as the heat of the flames was intensified by magical powers, turning it a dark blue, but those in the back simply walked over the corpses of their comrades.

The battle for Dalaran had begun.

Darrowshire

One hundred and sixty two: that was how many manned the defenses. Four hundred and twenty six people of the town of Darrowshire, with a hundred and a half odd men to defend it. Their numbers had been bolstered by almost thirty when a group of refugees from a nearby town had stumbled upon the town.

Joseph Redpath looked over the breastworks he and his men had constructed over the past few weeks and months. Farthest out from town a series of pitfalls and booby traps had been set up. A long, shallow, trenchline ran almost a mile outside of town, with great wooden steak barriers right in front of it. A hill of packed had been raised earth ran behind the trench as a place for archers to fire from. Behind the Long Mound as he referred to it, was another row of sharpened wooden poles that would trick any onrushing foes that got past the outer defenses. The ground then dipped down on all sides with Darrowshire itself at the bottom of surrounding hills. Further along the line was yet another trench which would keep his reserve, and in town various other defenses had been set up, ranging from boiling water being dropped, to platforms for archery and stone tossing.

Militia walked too and fro, carrying sacks of grain and salted meat, logs, and shovels. Most of the time the Scourge presence wasn't bad enough to hinder gathering and hunting yet they were always in the vicinity somewhere. When one spotted a living person, they'd descend upon them like vultures on a carcass.

Joseph was proud of his work. Here, at Darrowshire, for months now they'd held off the Scourge without a single dead man. Brucman Helinger had taken a poison dagger to the thigh but was healing, and Kelli Mornstrike broke a leg when he fell from the roof of an archery platform.

Soon, when the armies from the south arrived, the war would be over…at least that was what Mayor Rykov continued to tell them. In any case, it was one of the few hopes they had at this point.

"Joseph! Joseph! They're coming!" a familiar voice echoed off the rockface of the mountains behind the town. A man whom had called out to him was clad in scaled armor and a Kul Tiras tabard and was followed by another twelve militiamen.

"I'm Captain of the Militia now and you'll refer to me as such, Carlin." Joseph scolded his brother.

"Yes, sorry Captain." Carlin panted heavily, trying to point in the direction of the old Nathanos farmstead. "Lots of 'em! Hundreds! They saw us scavenging from Corrin's Crossing."

"Idiot!" Joseph Redpath slapped his brother's head. "Didn't I tell you not to go anywhere near Corrin's Crossing? The Scourge has been using it as a relay point ever since the 6th Army was scattered."

"Sorry sir, its just I thought we were in trouble when it comes to food and clean water so I-"the older Redpath cut the younger off.

"Fool! Now they've followed you. I don't want to hear your excuses now, just get everyone ready for battle. Take the outer trench." Redpath shouted out. Suddenly the front lines were in frenzied. Men dropped their immediate work and picked up their weapons, taking the positions they'd prepared. A quarter of a mile back the town bells rang violently, signaling that the undead had been sighted from the cupola of the town hall.

"Seems like this is the moment we prepared for…" Joseph's voice was thin. His stomach churned with pre-battle anxiety. He quickly ran up the Long Mound to get a better view of what was heading their way. As soon as he looked into the distance, he wished he hadn't.

A huge cloud of smoke rose on the horizon, beneath which hundreds, if not more, of undead rushed forward. Beneath him almost eighty militiamen manned the outer trench, and to his sides were about fifty of the town's most skilled archers. The rest of the militia, another forty, was in the reserve behind the Long Mound.

He caught glances of the men looking at him, awaiting the call. He'd trained them personally, and using his experience from the Second War, turned them into a far hardier militia than might otherwise be seen.

"Hold." He said in a low voice to his troops. The men echoed his command, making sure that each of their neighbors on the long, thing line heard the order.

The undead rushed forward headlong, uncaring about their wellbeing. They entered the range of the booby traps, and many began to trip them. A log swung from a nearby tree as a wire was tapped, crushing a swath of undead. Another few fell into massive pits with spikes at the bottom.

"_Hold_." Joseph Redpath called out again. The word went down the lines in a ripple.

The small army of ghouls ran straight into the forbidding wall of huge wooden spikes, impaling themselves on the outer bulwark. Still though, undeterred, the ghouls continued forward.

"_HOLD!" _Redpath screamed.

The undead advance suddenly slowed as they encountered a field of knee deep mud, courtesy of the melted snows. The men in the trenches suddenly stood up and launched a volley of freshly cut spears.

"_NOW!"_ the command was given. The archers fired their missiles, and the men in the front line picked up a long line of pikes that had been laid before the trench. Before the men with the pikes could reach the ghouls, the arrow volley sent dozens to the ground, allowing the militia to exploit the undready forces behind the vanguard of the ghouls.

The line of long pikes forced the undead back into the muddy ground, causing some of them to lose their balance. The advance was halted quickly though, as the sheer number and densly packed formation of ghouls checked the strength of the pikemen. Just as the pikemen's salient became precarious, a single flag was raised above the Long Mound, a red background with a green circle within it: advance.

The reserves behind the Long Mound rushed up and down the hill, taking the undead force by surprise. Several small parties of a dozen or so also emerged from the bushes and woods on the flanks of the undead and rushed forward. Suddenly, with their numbers doubled by the reinforcements on the flank, the Darrowshire defenders broke the momentary deadlock and began to roll up the ghouls. The reinforcements struck with such strength that the ghouls suddenly lost concentration on the target in front of them and the main force broke any resistance.

In an instant the tide of the battle was turned. Another rain of arrows fell upon the middle section of the ghoul army. The shots were impossible to miss as each of the undead was shoulder to shoulder. Trapped and susceptible to the arrows from above, the mindless undead were simply peppered to death with the missiles and eaten outside in from the various forces aligned around them. Something happened in that moment, a necromancer or champion suddenly broke and ran for its life. At such an event, the ghouls lost their cohesion and their formation disintegrated.

All that was left after that was to follow them and destroy as many as possible. As the undead routed, Joseph looked upon the field where the combatants had fallen. There were many score of broken ghoul bodies, but also a few of his militia men. Cursing, he descended from the Long Mound to check the damage done to the embankments.

"Did you see that Joseph! Did you see 'em run?! Hah hah we did it!" Carlin's voice rose above the cheers from his other men.

"I'm Captain Redpath to you, and don't get cocky. They were ghouls first of all, and there weren't as many as will come next time. Because of this stunning defeat, they'll definently perceive us as a threat and come after us with fuller force next time. And besides, where any man under my command is killed-" he looked at the bleeding bodies of several pikemen whom had held the line for that brief, pivoltal moment "-is as great a failiure as any."

Carlin looked crestfallen at the thought. "Yes sir, sorry sir."

_Indeed, we probably won too well…the undead will now see this small town as a threat to them and will return soon in far greater force than before. We've got to be ready for anything…_anything. Joseph Redpath's thoughts drifted to the broken redoubt and splintered spears. There was a lot of work to do, and very little time to do it in.

Dalaran

A great majority of the siege weapons used for the siege of Silvermoon had come with the Scourge in the march south, though many pieces were lost in the mountain crossing. In any case, the large amount of mindless infantry would make up for the lack in cavalry and lesser amount of artillery than Arthas would have preferred. After all, over eighty five thousand minions had been summoned from all across Lordaeron for this fight. Compacted into the Casted Vale, the entire front line stood shoulder to shoulder from the mountains to the river edge miles away. With such a force, how could the seven or eight thousand defenders of Dalaran hope to contend?

"Wizards of the Kirin Tor, I am arthas, first of the Lich King's death knights. I demad that you open your gates and surrender to the might of the Scourge." Arthas bellowed, using Kel'thuzad's magics to project his voice many times its own strength. For a few moments, there was a foreboding silence.

Then, the creaking of the gate that faced the Scourge filled the valley. The gates of Dalaran were fearsomely large indeed; great beech doors reinforced by steel-iron carvings and thorium boards. On top of it all, the entire city was on top of a strengthened Ley-line that could pull magic from any ambient zone in Lordaeron save Quel'thalas due to its Runestones. That could be a doubled edged sword however. If the magic was drawn and accidentally summoned within range of the Scourge's casters, they too could bolster their prowess and power.

"Greetings Prince Arthas, how fares your noble father?" Arthas looked up. Before him, in unsullied robes that seemed to radiate pure, immaculate silver was a man whom appeared withered with age and exhaustion. Purple bags hung from his eyes and his mouth was wrinkled into a tight purse.

"Lord Antonidas. Theres no need to be snide." Arthas greeted the old wizard.

"No? We've prepared for your coming, Arthas. My bretheren and I have erected auras that will destroy any undead that pass through them."

"You petty magics will not stop me, Antonidas." Arthas sneered.

The old man gave a wry chuckle. "Hah hah, very well. See to them personally if you must. I think you'll find our defenses quite complete. You won't take us by surpise like you did Lordaeron and the High Elves. Pull your troops back, or we'll be forced to unleash our full powers against you. Make your choice, death knight."

"If you won't surrender, then get out of my sight." The dark prince waved a hand.

"I'd say I'll look for you on the battlefield, but I honestly don't' think you can reach me. Farewell, Arthas." Antonidas gave a burning cold stare, his eyes literally wreathed in an icy cloud. With that, the Archmage twirled his great staff _Esoteric, _which was said to be wielded by only the most powerful of Archmages. Radiant runes appeared below Antonida's white steed, spiraling around him with great speed. When the runes reached critical mass, Antonidas was recalled to the bowels of Dalaran in a flash of light.

"I sense that 3 separate wizards maintain the auras. If you find and kill them, the auras will disperse." Kel'thuzad's voice reverberated. The lich floated up to him as if in some kind of procession. Arthas had wanted to take the lich along with him when he called out to the Kirin Tor's leaders, but for some reason the Thuzad had refused the offer.

"We'll rain fire down on the city and crush their defenses." Arthas spoke, glancing at the artillery lining up.

"Just remember, we're not here to conquer Dalaran. We are simply to retrieve the Book of Medievh." Kel'thuzad reminded him.

"Yes."

Both of the undead army's leaders watched silently as minions loaded shot onto the heavy arms of the artillery. Shouts arose and the munitions were fired off, some trailing greasy black smoke behind their fire-licked tails. Before any of the rounds could reach the spires of the city however, they seemed to bounce off an invisible wall. Where they impacted, the air turned blue and rippled like water.

"Damnit, a shield." Arthas realized.

"Ah, yes, the _Garmets of Tatos_. It seems the Kirin Tor means to funnel the Scourge troops into a direct confrontation beyond the shield which means they'll be within range of the blasted auras. That and they've destroyed the bridges leading into the city. This will not be easy, Prince." Kel'thuzad continued to analyze the shimmering shield around Dalaran. "You lead the Scourge into battle and eliminate those archmages. I will look for a way to disrupt that shield."

"Fine, just hurry up about it." Arthas swung himself onto his mount once more and waved an arm over his head. The front line of the Scourge's force began to march forward: lumbering corpses, the very core of the Scourge, forged ahead slowly. Behind them a line of huge abominations carried tons of rubble forward to plunge into the shallow moat around Cross Isle to make a crossing.

As Arthas and his troop moved forward, he noticed the mushy ground and looked down for a moment. The grass was trampled, but beneath it instead of brown mud he spotted black. It was pitch! His eyes opened wide, and he saw out of the corner of his vision a flaming arrow descending down the line.

"Oh shi-" the death knight began to curse, but before he could finish a sudden blast of heat washed over Arthas, almost throwing him off his mount. He heard the crackle of burning flesh and opened his eyes to the stinging heat of burning heat. Quickly moving forward before the pitch in front of him ignited, Arthas craned his head around. The entire first line was being roasted in a wall of blue flame.

Quickly enough though, dark wizards and lichs put out the fires by unleashing a torrent of icy magics which melted and sizzled the flames out. As soon as the confligeration died, the undead advanced again in force. By the time the undead's vanguard reached the moat, arrows had been falling on them for quite some time. The abominations, heaving their heavy loads dropped great loads of ruin into the pristine waters of what used to be a great lake, only to be covered by the city of Dalaran.

The knights whom had sallied forth from the city charged to into a sortie blitzing through the undead like a knife through cheese. When the mages realized the undead were trying to ford the moat, a sudden blast of magic swooped down from the walls and outlying aqueducts. Massive bolts of lightining seared entire units of undead. Flame rose in great tornadoes, swirling about the fields. The fiery updrafts sucked up dozens of undead, but not before casting them back into their own densely packed lines as flaming missiles. A typhoon of cold air suddenly kicked up, forming into a great cone which then turned everything within its diameter to ice.

A tremendous blast of purple arcane energy threw Arthas off his horse, skittering across the fallen of his army. The mount was torn to literal shreds, and Arthas felt thick, warm blood streaming off a gash in his forehead, but luckily the aura he'd wrapped around himself had absorbed most of the damage.

"To the Gate!" he cried out at the top of his lungs. Out of the midst of the Scourge's force came huge battering rams and a line of sorcerers whom had pledged their power to the Lich King. With tremendous bangs the battering rams smashed against the reinforced gates glowing a bright green as the Scourge's wizards enhanced their momentum and power.

More and more of the Scourge's casters filled into the salient across the forded moat, ensuing in a titanic duel of magics. Overhead bright flashes of the arcane powers crisscrossed. The looming towers and guard posterns above the walls began to charge with energy lancing out to obliterate everything within their needle-thin fulminations ripped the green fields in front of Dalaran apart, taking hundreds of undead with them.

Trying to disengage from the growing danger of the magical fire-fight, the knights wheeled and began to try and break free of the Scourge. Arthas spotted them and closed his fist, bringing it down. A group of nerubians whom had been digging at the location to try and get under the walls suddenly surfaced between the knight's lines and released globs of sticky web. A wave of undead overran the helpless horsemen as they tried to hack their way out of the webs.

If seen from afar, the battle was shown in a silent magnificence. The great columns of undead had marched straight to the walls, but not before leaving a great many of their kind behind them. Blasts of color, greens, amethysts, azures, blacks, argents, reds, and electric yellows flew through the sky afore Dalaran. Explosions and brilliant effects danced before the alabaster walls, wreaking havoc.

With a gut-wrenching crack, the gate before Dalaran crumbled and the undead poured in. No sooner than they had that Arthas noticed that the troops that were undead (the obvious majority) began to disintegrate. Gentle, faint globs of light ascended from the ground all over the city. A wave of defenders in their violet tabards rushed forward to cover the breached gate.

First small patches of flesh began to simply peel off and follow the flow of the light globs, turning to ash before they escaped too far. Then, the arcane corruption worked its way inside, turning the muscles and bones of the undead to brittleness. As the magic worked its way through the undead, before long it partially disruptred the connection between the undead and their masters, causing many of them to go into fits of shaking and seizure. Once they did, the brittle bones and muscle tissue cracked and splintered, causing the creatures to fall to the ground and shatter like glass.

_It seems that_ _I won't have much time if this keeps up. I've got to hurry and find that archmage before all my troops turn to dust around me. These Kirin Tor are formidable. If this is the type of game they want to play, then I'll just overpower them! _Arthas thought.

More and more undead rushed through breach flooding into the first circle of the city. The defenders of Dalaran prepared for their greatest challenge since Gul'dan's insurrection, throwing all their strength into the fight. The various guilds and organizations of the wizards had all banded together for this fight, a unity rarely seen in Dalaran's history.

With the fighting erupting all across the lower quarter of the city, few noticed the growing red tint of the clouds brewing in the sky. Something was approaching…

Ruins of Corrin's Crossing

"You return empty handed, Horgus?" a malignant voice echoed from its lightless abode.

"Yesh, mashter. The humansh, they were shtrong. They were tricksey!" a ghoul, taller than most with red, diseased flesh sloughing off his yellow bones replied. The air around him was filled with flies and the stench of his rotting body. Yet Horgus the Ravager was kept alive, despite the decomposition of his mortal case, for his soul was bound to his bones. He was a Champion of Ghouls, one of the few out of a hundred thousand that retained some part of their former selves; enough to lead their fellows in battle at least.

"Horgus…you have not only failed me, but disgraced the Scourge with such a pitiful defeat." The execrable voice continued.

"The humansh fought cheaply!" The half-witted ghoul tried to rebuke, putting its hands over its head.

The shadowy speaker moved into the light. He was clad in the blackest of armor and a vampiric runeblade at his side. Shoulder length black hair matching a perfectly trimmed charcoal goatee billowed behind as he stepped out of the darkness of the building.

"Marduk the Black…Death Knight of the Lish King…" Horgus' thoughts escaped him as the

"The humans will always fight any way that will allow them to win, underhanded or not. I see you've lost that memory as well. Well, what to expect? Sending a ghoul in place of me to defeat a force we had not previously known about. In any case, Horgus, they shouldn't be too strong. Last time you took nine hundred ghouls with you. This time, take three thousand skeletal warriors, archers, and a dozen of my best abominations. After all, we can spare them and more." Marduk the Black spoke, a pearly toothed grin appearing on his face. "Make an example of this Darrowshire."

(Thanks for the reviews and support so far guys. Hope to continue to hear your feedback. R&R)


	24. Chapter 23: Meridian of Refulgence

**Chapter 23: Meridian of Refulgence**

Grace Fields

Valdar rode onwards through the brown fields; vast grasslands which had not too long

ago been the sight of many furious battles. The land was empty, or so it seemed. Here and there he spotted ruined carriages, abandoned siege equipment, armor that served as tombs for yellowing skeletons. Those men had been lucky the Scourge hadn't raised them.

"Us too." He spoke to Belgor. The horse only neighed in frustration. It had been a long ride. Valdar understood the feelings of the horse. They'd come far, but the only sighting of soldiers they'd seen were a group of three cowards running any which direction. When he approached they tried to take his food and mount, but he'd left them in the dust by kicking Belgor's sides.

Above, a fresh yellow sky appeared as the sun rose. Valdar began to notice patches of grass here and there that wasn't so brown. In fact, it looked like the spring season might come early after the long and tortuous winter. Winter had been truly a bad time for the Alliance…autumn had been filled with resistance, but when the food began to disappear and the howling, freezing winds came, it became almost impossible to fight. It had been, unfortunately, an especially bad winter. The armies had bunkered down in towns, cities, forests, or whatever gave them cover over their heads, rarely leaving the safety of cover, leaving the undead free to roam about as they wished as well as encircle and besiege much of the remaining Alliance military.

"Ah, there we are. See that? That's where we can find some men to rally." Valdar told the horse as the forest at the edge of the Grace Fields came into sight. It had been there that most of the 6th Army had scattered into when their force had been broken.

Valdar dismounted and took the reins of Belgor to lead him through the thick bramble and mess of twigs. Bushes and undergrowth seemed to be returning as well, a welcome change to the forbidding white snows that covered the ground when he and Ellena had come south with the refugees. Gingerly stepping over twigs that might crack and sent a warning out to any enemy in the forest, Valdar and Belgor made their way deep into the forest with only a crude map he'd picked up at an Alteracin town at the base of the mountains and a rusty compass.

The journey had been long so far, so when the two happened upon a small stream of snowmelt water, Valdar's spirits raised. While Belgor drank rabidly, the low-knight filled the skins with the precious liquid. Plopping down the man unwrapped a piece of salted meat for himself and a sack of oats for the horse. After chewing on the meat for a while, he just sat there letting the pain in his shoulders and back from the mail fade away. The birds were chirping in the trees happily, and all seemed fine for a while. But there was this one bird that kept getting on his nerves…its singing was terrible.

"That is one of the most Light-awful bird melodies I've ever heard." He grumbled out loud. Behind him a twig snapped. "Wait-oh, crap!"

Before he could reach his sword which was still strung onto Belgor's saddle, five men rushed from the trees. Four of them surrounded him; another caught him from behind and put him in a headlock.

"And who be you, eh?" a tall man whose face was covered by a visor asked him, chuckling a little.

Valdar didn't respond. These men would just try to rob him and leave him for dead like the others.

"Not the talkative type, hmm. That seems to happen to people a lot 'round these parts. Isn't that right Tim? Hah! Tim had his tongue cut out for some crime back in the day." The tall, visored man went on, pointing his thumb at one of the dirty vagabonds who pointed a spear straight at Valdar's head.

"So you're all bandits? Your bird calls are a bit lacking, if I don't say so myself." Valdar said.

"We might as well be, and our calls are none o' yar' business. Do ya' mind giving me your name before I take all your earthly possessions and run off with 'em? Hah!"

_Got to stall them' till theres an opening. _Valdar thought.

"Valdar Justax, Colonel Commander of the 6th Army, 33rd Mounted Regiment." Valdar replied truthfully, hoping to coax some interest.

"So he might have some money if e's a biggie', eh boss?" a gangly man with small axe said, moving towards Valdar menacingly.

Instead, the visored man put his hand out in front of the long-limbed man. "Valdar Justax died out on the battlefield. You can't possibly…" his voice turned to steel.

"Wait, boss, you know this man?" other person that held Valdar in the lock spoke up, his stinking breath roiling over the knight's face.

"Sir Justax! Accept my apologies!" the visored man suddenly went to a knee and lifted the helm from his head. Under a tangled mass of beard and hair, Valdar recognized the face of Thorek Ghent.

"Arise." Valdar said at once. It was annoying to have to perform these rituals out in the middle of some Light-forsaken forest. "Who would've thought you yourself would still be alive, Thorek?" Valdar gave the big man a hug, and then shook his hand.

"By the heathen Gods I never thought I'd see you again! Commander Justax, hah! How'd you survive?"

"I escaped through the woods, same as the rest of you. Ellena and I joined a refugee column and escaped to Castle Peres. After that I decided that I was stupid enough to come back up here." Valdar replied.

"No doubt looking for survivors to get south? Or did you want a taste of the lawless life yourself?" Thorek's grin was almost as wide as his face, and his teeth almost as brown as the bark on the tres.

"No, I came to start a fight." Valdar told him, voice filled with resolve.

"What? You want to fight someone?" Ghent's face scrunched up in confusion.

"Yeah, that's kind of the idea. We need to have a talk about this lawless lifestyle of yours. How would you like to join a fighting force again?" Valdar asked.

"Wait-oh crap…" Ghent's eyes went wide.

"Exactly" Valdar let a sly smirk slip across his face as he saw Ghent looking to his comrades for some kind of excuse. "_Well, six is a start." _The knight thought.

Dalaran

Frostmourne blurred sideways, narrowly missing the archmage. Lightning fizzled and crackled around the archmage's white robes. Unleashing a torrent of electrical discharge, the Archmage reared his horse and tried to retreat from the reach of the death knight. Wands and staffs were no use in close combat, both of them knew that.

Around the two, undead, humans and elves fought. But all the rest was inane. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was killing this mage…

Arthas didn't know the man's name and his face wasn't familiar, but he was obviously one of the Archmage's of the Kirin Tor, the most powerful of the wizards. Thus far he'd lived up to his reputation. He'd seared dozens of Arthas' minions and they came charging up the tiled ramp, only adding to the damage done by the anti-undead aura. The only way to keep things even with that damn thing was to funnel more and more troops through the breaches in the gate continuously, eating away a lot of numbers. But still, the Scourge had brought eighty and five thousand heads (or bodies at least) to this place, utterly outnumbering the defenders. They'd fought their way up to the platform that overlooked the First Ring of the city where Kel'thuzad had stated the aura was emanating from.

Only adding to Arthas' gnawing doubt was the shield that was erected over the city _still _hadn't been disarmed. That meant no siege weapons could be used, and all of the casters had to be brought up to the immediate from where they were in danger of being stricken from the high ground by the enemy's wizards. Indeed the Kirin Tor had planned this well.

Arthas cut through one of his own ghouls and a footman to get back to the mage, who held a semi-circle of snapping electrical serpents above his head. In an instant, the salt-and-pepper bearded man unleashed the serpent which weaved its way through the undead, burning them to ash.

One footman tried to swing at him while another slammed his shield into the death knight's left side. Arthas stumbled but recovered and brought Frostmourne cleaving through one of the attackers armor, leaving a bloody gash. Outnumbered, Arthas focused for a singular moment on the necromantic energies he'd been taming since his joining of the Scourge. Green magic burst from his armor and seeped into the ground. The corpses of both the humans that had fallen began to stand, now fully under his dominion. He couldn't raise all the bodies he wanted though, of course because the anti-undead aura had made short work of the entire structure of his minion's bodies, leaving sparkling black ash that he could not resurrect.

The undead doubled the attack and the counter overwhelmed the defenders. Some of them broke and ran in fear while others were cut down before even noticing what had happened.

"May the Seven Hells visit the vilest tortures on you, Arthas!" the wizard shouted out, a writhing mass of electrical energy around him.

The wizard leapt from his horse and bolted towards Arthas, his very body being consumed by the electricity. Blood and flesh seemed to flow behind the mage.

"_One hit from that and I'm dead_."

Arthas sidestepped, and the mage seemed to run by obliviously. But before the death knight could turn to swing, the electricity flared from behind and threatened to engulf him. Arthas ducked and rolled as the current smashed into the ground, tearing a black, gaping hole in the tiles.

"DIE!" the archmage's voice called from behind. All around Arthas lightning pulsed and slithered, charging for a final, crushing blow. Before the mage could give the final word, the Prince swung himself around and let Frostmourne fly from his hands. The sword sliced the mage's head from his body and impaled itself in the wood of a nearby building. Immediately the electricity dissipated, and the alleyway was empty saved Arthas and the charred remains of both combatants. Casually, the death knight put a foot on the wood and tugged Frostmourne free.

"It seems you've finished this one." A feathery light yet sinister voice called from an alleyway below." Kel'thuzad emerged from the backstreet. Behind him were a trail of mangled corpses and bloodied body parts.

"I thought you said you had business outside Dalaran." The death knight said.

"Oh, I did, but it is finished. I completed the Altar for the summoning, and decided it best to help you out." The lich responded.

"Our forces have been thrown back to the first ring near the Mage's Guild headquarters and our gains on the eastern side of the city are in danger of falling back into the Kirin Tor's hands." Kel'thuzad reported. "They are executing a masterful defense."

"We'll deal with them as soon as we take down this aura and retrieve the Book of Medivh. How is it that you're not turning to dust?" Arthas questioned, seeing not a blemish on the lich's skeletal body.

"I'm counteracting the magic with an aura of my own. I've noted that it can reduce even the greatest of our undead to nothingness in less than twenty minutes if they're continually exposed to it. Not only that, but the disintegration damages the actual necromantic energy that flows through the muscles, sinews, and bones of the troops. This further reduces their ability to fight. I can sense Lord Antonidas ahead, and we must hurry. The damnable magic of the Kirin Tor is taking its toll on us that we can't continue."

Indeed the aura was a deadly enemy. For all the troops the undead funneled into the city they would all end up the same: ash. A fifth of the Scourge's force had already been spent. At this rate, if Dalaran held up much longer, they could actually end up defeating the undead. The thought suddenly filled Arthas with renewed vigor.

The ramp for the next platform was nearby, and on foot at the head of a column of disintegrating undead he charged up it, through the best defenses Dalaran had to offer. One of the towers fired at them, nearly missing the death knight as he jumped to the side tackling a purple clad footman.

The undead surged forward and clashed with another wave of defenders, the bloody melee engulfing the tiled streets of Dalaran. More magical spells were being cast from the aqueduct that led through the streets to the center of town. Arthas sent a detachment of undead to take the aqueduct, but couldn't focus on them due to the pressure on his front.

"_More…more!" _

The undead were bottled up at the few entrances, their numbers smashing together and working against them as they attempted to enter the city from outside. The city had been masterfully designed so that the nigh indestructible walls would channel any army trying to invade through the gates themselves which became either choke points or spaces were only a dozen could fit shoulder to shoulder at a time, and that was if they were organized; something the Scourge was not.

On the walls in front of the fighting the white tiling suddenly pulled back to reveal special glowing runes.

"Another barrier." Arthas realized. As the undead inched forward, attempting to gain a foothold on the second ring of the city, the barrier activated. This time a golden aura sprouted forth from the walls, doubling the effect of the anti-undead magics that already blanketed the city. Now in less than five minutes the complete disintegration of the undead was being fulfilled. Glancing to his side, Arthas saw even Kel'thuzad's frame beginning to show signs of damage.

"It has to end now!" Arthas shouted out, and the undead pushed forward without any hesitation. Up ahead the death knight spotted his quarry; Antonidas, riding forth with an escort of gold and purple plated knights.

Dalaran, the Aqueduct

Maccabeus gave a ragged cough. Around him someone cursed heavily as another hail of rusted arrows that flew from below. Smoke stung the young mage's eyes and throat as he stood back up again. His hands trembled and his gut felt light it was about to expel the breakfast he'd eaten earlier, but somehow he kept it down.

From the elevated region of the Aqueduct he could see most of the battle playing out. The Scourge's army carpeted the Casted Vale, and they'd broken through the first ring of the city, at least by the gates, Prime Platform, and Mage's Guild Hall.

The Aqueduct, as well as being used for ranged attacks, was also converted to a lookout tower. Only minutes before a runner had come by, trying to perceive what he could of the battle and return to his superiors with the information. Unfortunately, there was too much smoke coming from the second ring to make out exactly what was going on.

"Looks like the undead are shifting towards this district. Captain, ready your men." Comlos observed, pointing towards movement in the streets below.

"Indeed." The leader of the infantry assigned to guard the aqueduct began shouting for his men to move out. Three columns, each of twenty men-at-arms began to head towards the streets that led up to the ancient edifice. In the streets below gnomish explosives punctured the relative calm around the Aqueduct, signaling the advance of the enemy in their direction.

"That one! Take him out, boy!" Comlos' voice broke as he screamed out commands to the other crimson robed mages on the Aqueduct.

Maccabeus stood and began to whisper the words of power. His hands moved in circular motions around his chest, and between them a perfect orb of icy blue magic formed. Maccabeus thrust his hands forward in two punches, one after the other. The magic ice bolts were trailed by a thin mist and impacted into an abomination that was cutting at one of the defense towers with a massive axe as if it were a giant tree stump. The ice bolts punctured directly into the abominations mismatched body, giving off puffs of dust that lingered to its decaying body.

Battle cries went up and suddenly the fighting began. Maccabeus lost track of time, not exactly remembering what had happened. He knew he'd used a lot of mana; that much was clear from the shaking of his hands and the pain in his head. He gasped for air, hands on his knees. The young mage decided that it'd been quite a long time after he saw even a master mage like Comlos taking a huge draught of a thick mana potion.

"Double your efforts! The aura is failing!" he heard Comlos' voice again. Maccabeus hadn't even noticed as the tiny globes of sparkling energy began to fade.

"What the hells? What are they doing?! We can't stop all of them without the aura!" someone cried out. Below in the streets, the undead seemed to be pushing with even greater strength than before. No longer were their bodies melting away and their strength being sapped.

Beneath the Aqueduct now the undead had filled through the streets, moving like ants as they attempted to reach the causeway that led to the mage's positions. A few of the footmen who'd been with them before had set up a barricade at the foot of the Aqueduct where the dried out artificial river ways that led through the city began. The barricade was holding for now, but more and more casters were needed to help hold it up which meant that fewer could be used to stop the frontal advances of the Scourge through the city.

"We're being overwhelmed! We can't keep this up!" Maccabeus shouted out at Comlos. "We need to use the teleport scroll and escape!"

"No! We're staying right here!" the graying wizard shouted back, red-faced.

Suddenly, the sound of distant horns and yells washed over those of the battle. For a moment afterwards, there was silence.

"Look! There!" one of the aspiring wizards around him threw a hand out toward the mountain borders about three miles out.

Maccabeus stood almost to have his head impaled by another arrow, and quickly hunkered down again behind the stone wall that guarded him.

"What is it?" he yelled back.

"Cavalry! Lots! It looks like…like, they're charging into the undead's flank!" the old man's face lit up only seconds before another wave of arrows flew over the Aqueduct, one of them finding its mark and burying itself deep in the crimson robed mage's chest. The poor fellow mouthed something wordlessly while stumbling backwards, hitting the side of the Aqueduct and falling off to the ground twenty feet below.

"I can see their banners!" someone else said. "A green delta upon gold, a blue dragon on white, the three headed wolf, double acorns, golden lions on maroon, an eagle on red, an emerald suit of armor. The Fist! The Bloody Fist! It's Stromgarde! Stromgarde is here!"

Stunned, Maccabeus peeked his head out above the aged stone. A massive formation of horses with men wearing shimmering armor beneath a thousand waving banners, flags, and pennants cut through the flank of thet undead army. Behind them a great cloud of dust garnered, but still visible was the infantry, who kicked up even more dirt.

"It's an army! A whole army! Stromgarde's come to help!" Maccabeus blurted excitedly, feeling lightheaded.

"They must've used the Fuller Pass through the mountains. That's a dangerous rode, but quicker than going through the Hillsbrad Foothills." Maccabeus turned to see Comlos standing over him. "Now get back to work. With them we might just win this without the aura after all, but theres undead down there and their looking for our blood."

Dalaran, Base of the Citadel

Both Arthas and Kel'thuzad stood opposed to Antonidas, the sun beginning to sink in the sky behind them, casting huge shadows of the Violet Citadel upon the group. Behind Antonidas upon a dias stood an ancient leather-backed tome encased in a hemisphere of glass.

"Antonidas, the game ends now." Arthas drew Frostmourne towards the archmage.

"Is that what it is to you, Arthas; a game?" Antonidas gave a venomous sneer.

"This is you final chance. I'm being extremely patient with you. Surrender the Book of Medivh to me." The death knight ordered.

"So that's what you're after? And if we surrendered, what then would you do with us? Turn us into the likes of that monstrosity?" Antonidas stared in the direction of Kel'thuzad. "I wonder who you may have been in your past life, and what you gave up to become the slave of the undead."

"You know me, Lord Antonidas. It is I, Kel'thuzad. You are mistaken in thinking that I have become a mere slave. I have grown beyond the limits of the human container. I am eternal, and hold the power that you could never brave." The lich's voice flowed cool as ice through the smokey air.

"Kel'thuzad…who could have guessed that one of our most bright and aspiring mages could have become the lapdog of the one that would scourge humanity, your very species, from the earth." Antonidas' face grew sad. "Tell me, old friend; was it worth it?"

"Worth it, you say? There was pain, yes; and suffering. The road was a long one, but if you must know, I would make the same decision for another thousand lifetimes."

The archmage's face darkened at the answer. "So be it. If you will not accept the sins you've committed," his head turned from Kel'thuzd to Arthas "nor honor the sanctity of justice, then I will purge you both. Your Scourge ends here, monsters!"

Arthas and Kel'thuzad girded themselves, pulling into fighting stances. Around Antonidas the Knights of the Violet Citadel rushed past, sending the archmage's cloak fluttering. Behind the two masters of the undead, their minions rushed past to meet the assault.

The knight's horses jumped up in the air before the wave, landing amidst the undead. Lances splintered as they impaled the enemy. Horse hooves crushed skulls. Ghouls howled and skeletons writhed under the barrage. An abomination stepped up the platform and swung, cutting a horse and its rider clean in half, splattering the wall with their gore.

Antonidas twirled his staff in his hands masterfully, then stopped and pointed at the abomination. With a yell a pyroblast erupted from the shimmering crystal at the tip of the stave. The abomination suddenly burst into flames and fell over on its allies, oozing all kinds of vicous fluids.

Arthas ducked low as a sword from one of the riders threatened to slice into his left shoulder. Behind, another knight took aim of him and threw a spear which grazed the mail links around his abdomen. Ignoring the near hit, the death knight landed a crushing blow on an unmounted fighter, forcing the mortally wounded man to the ground.

"Give me your _soul!" _Arthas hissed. The horned skull engraved on Frostmourne eyes' glowed a bright blue as the runeblade absorbed the man's life energies. As soon as the drain was complete, the death knight thrust his hand into the bloody slash across the knight's chest and fired a pulse of necromantic energies into him. The man jerked and slowly stood, his eyes rolled back into his head.

Over the course of his many battles as a death knight, Arthas had felt the powers of the Lich King grow from within him. Now reanimating the dead and commanding them was as simple as playing with tin soldiers.

"Harrh!" Arthas turned and aimed Frostmourne towards another one of the mounted riders. With his yell, the blade loosed the collected mana of the souls he'd drained in the battle. The blue beam incinerated two more knights and a few of his minions, but what did they matter?

Kel'thuzad summoned the energy from Dalaran's artificial ley-lines and coursed them through his skeletal arms. The magic took on the appearance of double helixes as they made their way to his hands, and as their target was reached, Kel'thuzad pointed the bony fingers of his hands to the ground and unleashed a torrent of icy magic. The pure power of his spell encased everything around him in blocks of ice, leaving even the ground slick with the blue crystal. One rider's mount slipped and fell with a horrific neigh, sending the cavalier sliding across the ice.

Antonidas' horse stood its ground as he conjured great balls of flame, combusting dozens of undead at once. The very air around him shimmered and his eyes seemed to trail with the same fire he was conjuring. The head of a massive ethereal dragon wreathed in arcane wildfire appeared before him as he unwrapped a scroll and shouted out its contents. Taking careful aim as not to injure his comrades, he pointed his staff forward and the arcane dragon opened its mouth with a huge roar, throwing combatants off their feet with the sound pressure alone. A moment later, a pillar of white hot flame coursed out of mouth, turning the ground near its mouth to black glass. The magical fire seemed to take life of its own and sped down the alleyway and into the interconnecting roads setting many buildings alights before its fury dissipated.

Arthas uncovered his head which he had shielded from the blistering heat with his vampiric aura, and saw an open path to Antonidas through the din of battle. With a heave he pushed himself off the ground and bolted toward the white rider.

Antonidas saw him and twirled his scepter once more, this time thrusting it at the ground. From within its crystal poured a huge tidal wave of water. Arthas' eyes opened in surprise as the water washed over him, carrying him down the street and into a stone wall. Grunting in pain Arthas tried to take a breath but found only water still lashing at his body.

Arthas fell to the ground as the water pressure gave, coughing up the water he'd inhaled. Looking up he saw that the archmage had lost his focus on him and returned to firing streamers of arcane magic from his fingertips. Arthas reached for Frostmourne, but before he could reach it a hoof went down on the blade and a spear was pointed at his neck.

"Beg before the might of the Kirin Tor!" the knight commanded, his helm muffling his words.

"Prince Arthas!" Kel'thuzad's voice rang out. A lance of ice was flung through the air and cut all the way through the horse's head. Blood sprouted out, covering Arthas, but he still grinned and rammed into the horse, knocking its body over. The horseman tipped with the horse but recovered and pulled himself from under the dead animal's bleeding corpse. He threw down the spear and drew a strange luminous sword from the scabbard.

"Your pretty blade isn't going to save you." Arthas taunted the man as they circled each other.

"The Knights of the Violet Citadel are granted use of the Swords of Dawn, the enchanted weapons of ancient Arathor. This blade will be a match for even you, Betrayer!" The knight charged forward.

He swung downward, and then up almost as quickly as he'd completed his first strike. Arthas dodged then parried, sending a nova of sparks through the air. Adroitly the knight spun around, delivering a backhanded blow that barely missed the Prince's head and slammed on his armor while his sword swung down changing to an underhanded position. Noticing almost too late, Arthas backed off, nearly having his head taken off by one of his own subordinates as they swung wildly at a human with an axe.

The Knight of the Violet Citadel ran forward with his enchanted bastard sword underhand. Swinging even faster now, Arthas and his enemy set about in a dance of swords, flashing about as the battle continued about them.

"I don't have time for you!" Arthas shouted out, noticing again that the anti-undead aura was still effective, even if it had been weakened. He juggled Frostmourne to his right hand and in his left gathered a death coil. Arthas evaded one strike, then guarded another, counter striking to put the knight off balance, drew up close to his enemy and rammed the death coil straight from the palm of his hand into his enemy's face. The man's helm melted away as the death coil approached, his eyes showing surprise in his final moments.

As the headless body of the brave knight fell beside his equally headless horse, Arthas turned to behold Antonidas, still atop his mount. Brushing aside the blood-wet hair that blocked his view, Arthas glanced at the melee still occurring in the street.

Looking back at Antonidas, he saw that the archmage's eyes were on him once again. The two simply looked at one another for a moment, the world forgotten. Then Arthas opened his arms and pumped his fists while the archmage conjured another spell. From behind the death knight undead, crumbling and fermenting in the aura charged forth as best they could.

"For the Scourge!" Arthas cried out, running along with his minions.

Antonidas, covered in sweat, placed his hands in front of him, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. Clouds immediately gathered overhead, just as they had before Silvermoon. No sooner than had Antonidas finished the spell, great meteors of ice rained from the sky, crushing from side to side those who ran by Arthas.

"Just as I was always told! Your powers truly are some of the greatest in the Seven Kingdoms of Men!" Arthas shouted out, his voice barely heard over the fighting. In truth, the past seemed hazier than ever. With every passing day, the past that Arthas had once clung to seemed to slowly descend into the darkness of forgetfulness.

Antonidas didn't answer intent on crushing everything beneath his area of effect. Soon Arthas realized he was almost by himself. Only a few remained with him, the rest crushed under the intensity of the archmage's blizzard.

_Just a bit more! So damn close!_

Arthas suddenly jumped sideways, propping himself up on the wooden windowsill of a building, and jumped off it with all his strength. Flying through the air, his cloak extended to its furthest. Antonidas' hand pointed up towards him, crackling with lightning. Arthas brought Frostmourne into a jabbing position parallel to his body with his legs tucked beneath to absorb the impact of his landing.

Just as Frostmourne's tip reached Antonidas' lightening surrounded finger, the archmage let his spell go. The lightning traveled up the spine of Frostmourne and into Arthas' armor. Giving a yell of pain, Arthas lost his form and went tumbling to the ground. Antonidas' hand caught the brunt of Frostmourne's forward motion and was cleaved down the middle all the way to his elbow. The old man let loose an airy cry and fell off his horse, the scepter falling from his hands, its crystal shattering against the ground.

For what seemed a long time, Arthas simply lay on the floor, fully absorbed in the pain the spell had caused him. It felt like a thousand needles had stabbed him all over. Slowly, oh so slowly, the pain receded, and he opened his eyes to sit up. His armor was still steaming from the charge that had run through it, and he could feel in several places that the chain mail had been seared into his flesh.

He stood up and limped towards the archmage who clutched his torn arm with the remaining one. A pool of blood had collected under his grevious wound, so there was no telling just how long Arthas had been out of it. The death knight picked up Frostmourne jerkily.

"It pains me…even to look at you, Arthas." The wizard whispered; his eyes bloodshot.

"Then I'll end that pain." Arthas grasped Frostmourne tightly, and swung down, impaling Antonidas through the heart. For a moment the wizard gasped and relinquished the life he'd clung to. The aura faded and disappeared.

"The Book is yours, Lich."

Kel'thuzad floated up the last ramp towards the Book of Medivh's position. His bony fingertips traced the glass, leaving crystals of frost in their wake.

"The last spellbook of Medivh: one of the most powerful artifacts of our time, young Prince." Kel'thuzad said thoughtfully. "I will begin summoning Lord Archimonde at sunset –death knight, we have a problem." The airy tone turned grim.

"I noticed. With a force of that strength, they could easily crush out position outside the walls and trap us in this city with the remaining forces of Dalaran which will rally to take us on on two fronts."

From the bonds of the Scourge's army, Arthas could sense the assault on the undead as if he were seeing it with his own eyes.

"It's Stromgarde! So the old Trollbane finally made his move. How typical, to come running to a battle when its half finished. We must hurry. I'll gather all the warriors I can to defend you and the Altar while you begin the summoning."

Both the death knight and the lich moved as fast as they could through the corpse ridden streets of Dalaran, the battle having turned indubidably. Directly above the city, as the sun began to turn its flourecent orange, dark clouds had appeared. They slowly swirled, turning from the sickly green to a color that reflected the blood spilled in battle.

In all the wide world the sun shone brightest before the darkest hour.

Alliance Forces in the Lordaeron-Dalaran Theater of War, Late Winter 615

The armies of the Alliance of Lordaeron have been bereft of their prime leader, King Terenas Menethil for some time now. Many of the organized forces of the Alliance have been scattered by the savagery of the undead Scourge or weakened to the point of collapse by the Plague. The few remaining bastions of strength in Lordaeron took up refuge in the mainly uninfected cities and towns to brave the harsher than average winter.

The Alliance's remaining major forces in Lordaeron include:

-Captain Commander Garithos' (self-proclaimed Lord General) host, encamped near Wallaceburg, Lordaeron. One of the last significant forces left in mid-Lordaeron. In high spirits, but despite all of Captain Commander Garithos' boasts, the host hasn't moved all winter. This force contains elements of the 1st, 2nd, and 5th Armies.

Strength Nearly 30,000 infantry, complimented by an additional 5,000 mounted knights.

-3rd Army, Lord General Berradon Desworth commanding. This force is currently besieged within the metropolis of Tyr's Hand.

Strength 12,000 infantry within the city, as well as 2,000 light cavalry. Surrounding the city is another 3,500 levies.

-4th Army, Captain General Alain Serath commanding. This force is currently moving west from Northdale to relieve Tyr's Hand, which has withstood siege for the entire winter. General Alain left a significant portion of his forces in Northdale to safeguard the easternmost marches of Lordaeron from marauding undead.

Strength Fully 27,000 infantry supported by 3,000 heavy cavalry, 1,000 knights, and an additional 1,000 light cavalry. This force is slowed by carrying heavier war engines with them.

-Remains of the 6th Army. The 6th Army was shattered in decisive combat earlier in the winter at the Battle of the Grace Fields. High General Volsung (promoted by Uther the Lightbringer days before his death), was slain in combat. Due to the heroic sacrifice of the Knights Luminary, an esteemed order of cavaliers, most of the 6th Army was able to escape from certain doom. They were however, mostly scattered.

Strength Approximately 6,000 soldiers and conscripts. Most have formed small bands that either work to protect the common folk or to terrorize them with banditry to gain food and shelter.

-7th Army, Lord General Thorr Steelhewer commanding. This force is currently encamped near the Alterac-Stromgarde-Lordaeron border using Castle Peres as an anchor and base of operations. They have not seen heavy action since early winter.

Strength 8,000 infantry, 300 cavalry, 1,000 mercinaries.

-11th Army, Captain General Newt Tallheart commanding. This force is currently encamped in southern Lordaeron, acting as a barrier to undead incursions towards the Hillsbrad Foothills.

Strength 15,000 infantry, 750 heavy cavalry, 5,000 militia.

-Forces of Dalaran, unknown commander as Lord Antonidas was recently slain upon the field of ongoing the ongoing battle for the city. Comprised heavily of companies of mages, this force is currently fighting in a heated battle for Dalaran.

Strength 6,000 infantry, 500 cavalry, 100 Knights of the Violet Citadel, over 700 mages fit for combat. (These numbers are those prior to the Battle for Dalaran).

-Fleet of the River Averass & Lake Lordamere, Rear Admiral Anson Horson commanding.

Strength 14 river galleys, 3 cruisers, 7 heavy transport ships.

-Stromgarde Relief Army, unknown commander. [Stromgarde is not a part of the Alliance of Lordaeron, but has come to the aid of Dalaran as an ally against the Scourge

Strength 15,000 cavalry, 20,000 of Stromgarde's finest infantry

(Thanks for reading! Read and Review please, the input spurs my motivation to write.

Omegatrooper)


	25. Chapter 24: Hell Grounds

**Chapter 24: Hell Grounds**

The Casted Vale

"Inform Lord Geralt to perform a right wheel towards the city. Clear the causeway to Dalaran.

A blue flag with a red arrow pointed towards Dalaran was lifted atop a huge pike. Almost immediately the flank of the Stromgardian cavalry began to turn towards the burning metropolis.

"My orders to all commanders along the rest of the axis: attack. Have them reform by the road or else we'll get too spread out to continue our spearhead into the Scourge's lines." Sirael Trollbane commanded, waving his hand across the battlefield.

Before him and his commanders the Stromgardian force was cutting through the undead like a hot knife through butter. With surprise on their side, they'd emerged from an icy mountain pass and crashed down into the flank of the Scourge.

Sirael's own banner fluttered atop the slopes that led out of the passes; the Bloody Fist of Stromgarde. He'd come with as many he could gather when he'd heard that the city of Dalaran itself was soon to be under siege. Under his command were almost thirty five thousand of the bravest and strongest Stromgarde had to offer. The highland nobles had offered their strength first, relishing combat after so many years of skirmishes with pockets of ogres that had holed up in their hills after the Second War. The Lowlanders and then even some of the coastal lords had pledged troops, and as he marched his army grew even larger. What Sirael saw now was a panoramic vision of war and glory.

Against the backdrop of a sunset tinted sky stood the Violet Citadel pillars of smoke and fire surrounding its majesty. In the fields below the Scourge's army had been situated, three main bodies surrounding the city on east, west, and south.

_Why couldn't you see it Father? This is the battle we were all meant for. This is what decides our time. Has time stolen your spirit? _

Sirael had split his own forces up into five components. Lord Geralt would clear the undead below the city's walls with heavy cavalry, and then infantry under General Cramore would help retake the city. Lords Hithlum and Mordemen were striking with their full strength into the heart of the undead: almost two thirds of the mounted in the army. Their rows of glittering armored knights upon their equally opulently barded mounts were currently riding over anything unfortunate enough to get in their way. Mixed in with them were mounted archers.

Old Duke Barros was commanding several regiments of his longbow men from Seaguard who were raining fiery death (the irony) upon the Scourge's troops. The longbow men constantly had to move up to fire once more as the cavalry attacks were getting out of their range. Behind them, commanded by the Greatson of Hammerfall, Norbert Malcom, were the massive formations of infantry; men-at-arms, dismounted knights, levy spearmen and conscript swords, footmen and the famed Stromgardian berserkers from Tol Barad.

"Make sure they don't advance past the road!" Sirael yelled out at the runners as they made their way back to their posts. If his forces got their blood up and disobeyed that order, they might be engulfed by a counter attack as they would be too spread thin. As things were, they might just clear the Scourge from the field by a quarter of the day to midnight. Fighting at night would be tough however, so Sirael intended to end the battle as quickly as possible.

"The last of the force has just made it through the mountain pass and are forming up." A rider approached.

Sirael nodded, looking at the effects of his attack. He'd had scouts reporting to him from the moment the Scourge entered the Vale and had formulated the plan in his mind as they marched. Granted it was extremely difficult to hide the massive ranks of men, but a line of pickets and skirmishers had cleared out any Scourge minions that might have been assigned to watch the passes. Undoubtedly the undead had thought it was simply some Dalaran outriders trying to harass their rear. Unfortunately for them, this was not a rabble. It was the largest independent army Stromgarde had gathered in decades.

"Now, let's finish this up. We'll take the old pathway past that hedgerow" he pointed to a small scrabble of brush "and flank the enemy's rear line of retreat. They'll be caught in our trap."

"Not even Lothar's ghost could get out of this bag." One of the commanders around him stated boldly.

"Let's back that statement up on the battlefield, Captain. All reserve, forward!" Sirael unsheathed his gleaming sword and kicked the sides of his ebon stallion. The battle was fully joined.

_Glorious._

The Summoning Altar

Kel'thuzad continued his unnatural stare at the cracked and wrinkled pages of Medievh's spell book. The lich's vibrant blue eyes drank in all the information scrawled across the pages and more, seemingly reading between the lines.

"The circle of summoning at the Altar has been completed. Begin the summoning as soon as possible." Arthas said as he returned from the front. He'd found the dreadlord Tichondrious in session with the lich as he'd made his way through the torrents of minions he'd sent the way of the Stromgardians. Typical of the dreadlord to suddenly show up when he was needed most and least expected only to do nothing.

"Nearly. I've been reading through Medievh's work. His knowledge of demons alone is staggering. I suspect he was far more powerful than anyone realized." Kel'thuzad replied, not bothering to look up from the book.

"Not powerful enough to escape death. Suffice to say, the work he began we will finish. Death knight, can your forces hold?" Tichondrious asked.

_Many thanks for your offer of help, demon._

"For now" Arthas replied. "The enemy is regrouping their forces by the road. They've already overrun a third of my force and could drive us from the field soon if they please. I've ordered the best to remain here and protect Kel'thuzad. You best hurry lich. We could be seeing banners and streamers any moment now."

Kel'thuzad ascended to the top of an abandoned watchtower ruin which stood little more than ten feet high. Barriers and ley-pillars had been placed around it to enhance the magic draw from the city, boosting Kel'thuzad's own potent powers.

"_Denal zirki xxir!" _the lich's voice shouted out over the din of battle. The wind suddenly seemed to stop with his words and the air hung still and thick like a poisoned molasses. All at one however it returned and began to swirl around the bony figure of Kel'thuzad. Leaves, grass, and dust all churned about his silhouette and suddenly a thin beam of jade shot out from beneath him and impaled the clouds above. The beam seemed to sear the sky itself as the puffy orange marshmallows turned black, red, and angry. The shockwave roiled throughout all the clouds, tinting them harsh and unforgiving colors. The sky beyond seemed to take on an unnatural and miserable taint.

"Here they come." Arthas muttered as he saw the tops of standards with streaming blood red pennants. Yet the sight wasn't where he thought it would be from. Instead of emerging from the east, they were coming from the south. The buggers had flanked him.

Immediately the undead around them formed into a strong rank with more coming from behind every moment. In an instant the cavalry covered the distance between the two forces and smashed into the line. Pikes were shattered and horses neighed. Three abominations rushed into the fray, swinging wildly at anything that moved.

"Reposition those ballistae!" Arthas called out. These flankers were liable to overrun the Scourge's artillery batteries if they didn't turn to face or retreat. Behind the wave of heavy cavalry came a tide of infantry to mop up any mess left behind by their predecessors.

"Hold until the lich completes the summoning, death knight! The wizards in the city are counterattacking. I will go hold them off." Tichondrious shouted out.

_I already know, damn you._ He could see with his own eyes from here that the defenders of Dalaran had begun to sally forth. They had doubled their efforts and now that the Scourge was stuck between a rock and a hard place, they were pushing even harder. Spells flew through the air abound and new cries had arisen.

With his usual green flash the dreadlord disappeared. "That piece of shit." Arthas spat as he walked along a secondary defensive perimeter forming around Kel'thuzad.

"Behold, Prince!" he heard Kel'thuzad's voice calling out to him. Looking up the lich was still engulfed within his magical cyclone. The rippling and shimmering air around him seemed to wear and wrinkle, tearing into tunnels which held a fiery glow to them. Suddenly a creature poked its head out of one of them. Its body was sinuous and leathery with a long mane of bristly black…spikes, running down its back. Two antennas emerged from the mane and seemed to sway with the wind, the ends of them opening to reveal a mouth filled with teeth and a long tongue that tasted the air.

"With the barrier between the worlds weakening, the Legion has sent their minions to aid us! These felhounds will snuff out the flame of life of the mages that trouble us. And look! The mighty infernals descend!" Kel'thuzad's voice had risen to euphoria.

From the warped clouds the green tints seemed to gather together and suddenly explode with fire. The fire descended in great balls, looking like some great meteor shower. There were dozens of them…hundreds…thousands!

As the felhounds began to pour out of the portals and the fiery comets descended, the human army swarmed around the tower, fully surrounding Arthas and Kel'thuzad. Their torrent overwhelmed even the strongest of the undead's warriors as they were taken by complete surprise and having to fight three fronts at once couldn't support the whole defensive line.

"THE LEGION'S MIGHT DESCENDS!!" the lich called out before continuing with his stream of demonic words.

Amidst the orchestra of strife a cataclysm ten thousand years in the making descended upon the world. The skies across Lordaeron turned sickly with the heralding of the Legion's return, and Azeroth's moments of greatest darkness had come.

The Fields of the Casted Vale

"Hold together! Damn it all hold together! Lieutenant, take those men and cover our flank!" Sirael Trollbane ordered. Great plumes of smoke rose from the battlefield turning the air oppressive and harsh. It stung his throat to even breathe. The grass had been trampled into thick mud. Horsemen rushed too and fro meeting in battle with the undead and these new enemies.

The sudden arrival of these things and their utter ferocity had completely thrown the attackers aback. Now his force which had seconds ago been on the offensive was almost completely surrounded.

"Prince Trollbane! Behind you!" the voice of his adjunct pierced the air. Sirael turned pulled hard on the reins of the horse. A massive giant of sown flesh swung a huge cleaver at him. Trying to back, the horse bumped into something and the blade came down slicing the poor creature's head in half. Sirael fell to the side and for a moment glimpsed at the sky. The great green comets were still plummeted from the heavens.

_Damn all! We were on the brink of victory! _The sudden arrival of whatever the hell these things were had thrown his formations into chaos. The entire battle had degenerated into a bloody slaughter. One moment he was in complete control, the next he couldn't even give orders to the man next to him.

The demons had come from nowhere. Suddenly great sores opened in the air and the things came forth in an unending torrent. Then the skies themselves had seemed to bleed, the green drops becoming horrific monsters of flame and rock.

Sirael pushed himself back to his feet and reached for his sword to find it missing. Looking around he noticed that his helm was gone too. Damned if he was going to allow this to happen. He had ridden off without the King's permission taking Stromgarde's great strength and he wouldn't let them be massacred on the field of battle! His honor rested on this battle; the honor of Trollbane, and the survival of all men.

"TO ORDER YOUR FLEAS!! BACK INTO YOUR LINES!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. The men around him suddenly seemed to take notice.

"You heard the Prince! Together! Rally to the Prince! Annex!" he heard the voice of his adjunct, Toshen, shout out again. In an instant he was beside him on a blood splattered and stinking horse.

"My Prince, the banners from Lords Geralt and Hithlum has disappeared into the smoke. We can no longer make out their positions. The Greatson of Hammerfall is bringing his force to bear with the new enemy on the western flank and Duke Barros is trapped in a pocket of undead not three hundred yards from us. What are your orders?"

The world seemed to spin. It was all falling apart.

"Demons! Unstoppable!" he heard the cries from his men. They were terrified, and rightly so. The beings that seemed to suddenly pour from the Scourge's positions and fall from the sky were so malefic in battle that everywhere they went a fine steam of blood seemed to rise.

_Father, what do I do?_ Sirael witnessed a man torn limb to limb by one of the massive infernal beings of fiery stone.

"Demons!" the cry pounded in Sirael's head. Nothing made sense any more. How the hell did it happen? What was going on?!

"Prince Trollbane!"

_What can we do against the Otherworldly?_ A mage who had somehow made her way onto the front lines was suddenly pounced upon by one of the demonic dog-like creatures. The demon seemed to suck her life dry leaving her an empty husk of skin and bones. _  
_

"Prince Trollbane!"

_This is madness! _A huge demon with wings breathed a suffocating toxin on a crowd of footmen who fell to their knees scratching at their throats with their eyes rolled back in their heads.

"Prince Trollbane!" Toshen's voice pulled him to reality.

"Y-yes. Go forth and try to reach Duke Barros. We'll make a stand here. If we can link up with Barros we'll try to clear a path towards the city where we can meet with the mages."

"Do you wish for the order to be retreat?" Toshen asked.

"No, not retreat. That will cause panic. The situation is very confused. Give Barros the order as simply as possible. Just tell our men to regroup here! If you can't find us then order everyone to break out of the battle and make for the mountains. Go now!" Sirael slapped Toshen's horse and the mare dashed off. "Now you sack of fools, hearken to me! Hearken to your Prince or fall in this place!"

Already a bedraggled group of men had gathered around him in his shining blood red armor. Several torn banners were now flying above him and the group seemed to grow. The men cried out his name and his heart swelled with pride. He couldn't help but notice however that the positions that even a few seconds ago were cleared of Scourge were now filling with demons. As the soldiers chanted, he felt a strange courage build in him; almost a bloodlust.

"Well then, boys! Looks like we'll have to teach these bastards a lesson! No one interrupts Stromgarde's battles!" his voice bubbled up from within. The men cheered. They were mostly the cavaliers he'd led into the rearguard of the undead and had lost their horses some way or another. They all knew now though unless the main force reunited with them…

"Come with me once more!" the Prince shouted.

"**Once more to this battle**!" the men echoed the ancient Stromgardian battle cry.

"Through the salt of the sea and the bloodied snow on the mountaintops!"

"**Fighting with tooth and nail!**"

"To battle Stromgarde! Give these enemies the kiss of steel and send them to each of the hells that waits for them!" Sirael picked up a sword from the mud and looked up. All around him and his circle of men was a wall of living fire.

_How did it come to this? I guess Barros won't be able to reach us in time after all._

For a moment Sirael watched his shadow flickering in the light of the infernals. Then he dashed forward with all his might. He didn't look back to see if his men followed, simply raising the sword and jumping at the closest demon. As he approached, he felt the heat off the infernal blister his skin and sear the cloth under his armor but it was too late to stop now. Crying inordinately, Sirael lodged the sword deep in a crack in the infernal's chest and pried to the side. A warbled scream pierced the air and Sirael fell backwards landing with a thud on the muddy ground. Looking backwards he saw that the line had begun to buckle. One of the banners fell atop him, covering his body.

_I'm sorry, Galen. _The Prince's thoughts drained as his vision reddened. The sky still rained fire.

The Casted Vale, Summoning Altar

_The demons are pushing them back; overwhelming them, _Arthas realized. More and more portals continued to open, rippling like black, putrid water. Thousands of demonic minions continued to cross the boundaries of the Twisting Nether and entered into Azeroth. The surviving Stromgardians were all fleeing for their lives before their might.

"Its over; the humans can't compete with this." Arthas said to himself. He thrust Frostmourne into the mud and breathed heavily. His arms throbbed with the weight of the sword and his veins felt like they were on fire from the magic he'd conjured.

The banners Stromgarde had stood so proudly beneath minutes ago now all lay trampled in the muck. Most of the humans had been butchered in the first moments of the invasion. Nothing could have prepared them for the coming of the Legion. For a moment though, they'd almost lost. Most of the Scourge's army on the fields of the Casted Vale had been torn asunder by the sudden counter attack.

Walking slowly back to the ruined watchtower where Kel'thuzad stood Arthas saw piles of human corpses; their high tide. That was the closest they could have ever gotten to stop the Burning Legion's attack, whether they knew about it or not.

Around Kel'thuzad the air was filled with static and smelled like ozone. A swirl of energy still surrounded him, and the portals seemed to be coalescing and joining. With crackling blue electricity the portals merged slowly, searing the ground beneath them to vapor. On the other side was a fine mist of purple and green. Suddenly Arthas saw a massive shadow gather itself from the far side of the aperture. The silhouette stood as still as stone, but its tail beat the mist impatiently.

When at last the two final gateways merged a stupendous burst of wind nearly blew Arthas on his back as he gazed on at the spectacle. Tichondrious had also reappeared to greet the Lord of the Legion. The death knight saw a twisted and hideous look on the dreadlord's face that he couldn't quite describe; something he'd never imagined a demon could make; was it…delight?

With hair and cowl flapping in the heavy wind, Arthas shielded his eyes but not enough to the point where he blocked his vision of what was happening. Just then foot, or hoof more like, stepped from behind the gateway followed by a gust of the same mist that had emerged from the demonic portal the orcs had guarded in the Alterac Mountains. Two bright red eyes glowed deeply from within the mist, and as it cleared, Arthas beheld Archimonde.

"**Tremble mortals and despair. Doom has come to this world." **The very words rattled Arthas' armor and shook his bones. He knew that if he could have felt fear still, it would've frozen him stiff here.

A massive figure, at least twenty feet tall, had fully dawned from the doorway between worlds. With scales of shimmering myrtle and an armored mantle of the most alien bronze Archimonde the Defiler stood in all his glory and petrifying might. The very air around him seemed to flee.

Archimonde turned to Kel'thuzad, who stood mute before the demon lord. "**You have done well, little lich. My plan worked perfectly.**" The titanic demon paid no heed to Arthas.

"Lord Archimonde, all the preparations have been made." Tichondrious was the first to speak.

"**Very well, Tichondrious. Since the Lich King is of no further use to me, you dreadlords now command the Scourge.**"

_What?! They would do away with the Lich King? _Arthas couldn't believe what he was hearing. They would just be tossed aside like some rag doll?

"As you wish, Lord Archimonde." Tichondrious replied contently.

"**Soon I will order the invasion to begin. But first, I will make an example of these paltry wizards by crushing their city into the ashes of history**." Archimonde departed the portal's zone making way for huge columns of demonic invaders.

"This has got to be a joke! What happens to us now?" Arthas raged.

Kel'thuzad descended from the tower and stood beside the death knight. Together they watched Archimonde climb a tall hill near the mountainside, the sun now falling beneath the horizon.

"Be patient, young death knight. The Lich King saw this as well. You still have a part to play in his grand design. We are the dreadlord's…for now."

The great demon squatted down atop the hill and began etching something into the loose dirt with his fore claw. He put a hand underneath his chin rubbing the tenticular appendages there and smiled with approval. Slowly he looked up and beheld Dalaran.

"_**Axxir uzzar utaros." **_Archimonde's voice echoed across the open plains for all to hear, yet he yelled not. The power behind his tones would strike fear into anything that opposed him.

"Let this scar signify the first blow to the mortal world." Kel'thuzad translated the words.

"_**Ashir murdas betha dun…" **_

"From the seal shall arise the doom of men…"

"…_**daler taro, illier dask nah khul."**_

"…who in their arrogance sought to wield our fire as their own."

From the dirt Archimonde had carved his seal into, a skyline of sand towers arose in the likeness of Dalaran. They matched the city's great towers and walls perfectly, standing defiantly in the valley between the two giant mountain ranges.

"_**Rethun sess thar a sama nahr, utaramus. Belar somanis am asatha rekas nah."**_

"Blindly they built their kingdoms on stolen knowledge and conceit. Now they will be consumed by the very flame they sought to tame."

Archimonde thrust a finger into one of the sand towers. Hearing the crack of breaking stone, Arthas turned around to see one of the towers of Dalaran come crumbling to the ground. A great cloud of dust emerged from the giant's fall.

"What the hell…" the death knight muttered.

"He is disrupting the Ley-lines that hold the towers up. Such power is undeniable." Kel'thuzad said absently.

Archimonde let loose a huge roar. So great was the sound pressure that after it was done, Arthas felt a trickle of blood come from each of his ears.

"_**Belanora mordanos n elnar en amur nah fal no skada." **_

"Let the sounds of doom echo across this world, that all who live may hear them. Our reign of chaos has begun." Kel'thuzad concluded.

Archimonde crushed the sand city in between his hands and Dalaran which had stood as the center of human magic for a thousand years, deteriorated into rubble within seconds.

The Defiler let loose another piercing howl.

Ruins of Dalaran

Maccabeus pushed a piece of rubble off of his chest. He turned over and coughed a splatter of blood, not daring to look up. He saw the fiery sky…the men of Stromgarde suddenly cut apart and torn to shreds…the horrors! And then the towers had fallen, all thirteen of them. They had fallen and crushed them all.

He let loose a scream of pain. The light had begun to fade as the sun disappeared. Darkness was coming. Darkness and death.

"Boy…" a voice wheezed nearby.

Maccabeus cocked his head in the direction of the sound quickly, but upon seeing the sight averted his eyes and let a sob escape from him. Master Comlos's body was sprawled amongst the ruins. His left arm was bent at an unnatural angle and his right was missing altogether. A jagged rock had crushed his torso and his innards had partially spilled out.

"Boy…run. Run from this place. The demons have returned. Go and live as you can." Comlos spoke softly; softer than Maccabeus had ever heard him speak.

"Master." Maccabeus felt hot tears running down his face.

"Ru-ugh." His master's voice gave out and the old man's eyes turned blank. Screams were rising now from those who still lived but couldn't move. Maccabeus Dolaryn stood, clutching his broken ribs.

Almost blindly, he walked away from the ruins of the aqueduct and the rubble that had covered the roads. Here and there he would hear moans from the hurt and see hollow-eyed survivors wandering about in utter shock and confusion.

A terrible roar filled the air and sent lances of pain up from his broken bones. The cry had shaken his own frame as much as the ruins he stood upon. Fear gripped Maccabeus; fear and shame.

He then ran, as far and fast as he could away from the sounds of dying men.

Somewhere in the Great Sea, One month earlier

"Straighten out those sails! Targ, get over here! Get those peons buckets and start flushing the water out from below decks!" a leader's voice shouted out over the roaring storm.

Huge waves battered the ships again and again. The foam had often overtaken the decks, washing the filth encrusted wood with salty sea water. Above the ship many of the sails had been tangled in the cross winds. It wasn't just this ship. It was almost all of them. After all, the orcs weren't made to sail. They were better rowers than users of wind power. Damn human vessels.

Warchief Thrall stood at the very bow of his boat, braving the best the sea had to throw at him. His black plate armor was dripping with the water and his hair was a tangled mess, but none of it mattered.

"Shore up the sails now!" he shouted angrily.

They were at the very head of the entire Horde fleet. Thousands, no tens of thousands of orcs were aboard these stolen ships. This entire Alliance fleet had been stolen out of Southshore when the humans hadn't expected it. Hundreds of boats sailed together against the lurching waters and howling winds. The seas rose and lightning crackled. Some of the orcs hid below decks, not used to the sea.

Thrall only laughed. Even the fury of this unnatural storm couldn't stop them. They were the Horde. With the elements on their side they had been reborn as the great and noble people they once were. Gone were the days of the demonic corruption that had crippled them. Now they could reach their full potential. That had been Doomhammer's dream. And Doomhammer had told him how it had been his own father's dream long ago.

He'd heard tales of the Maelstrom when he was held as a captive and gladiator for Blackmoore at one of the internment camps in the Hillsbrad Hills long ago. It was the monster storm that dominated the far west seas of the world. No human had ever conquered it, but today the orcs would!

"Into the heart of the storm! There's bound to be land on the other side of this squall! _REVASH_!" he shouted out.

The orcs manning sails and ropes grunted in response. Their boat would lead the way. They all knew what was at stake. If the ships got separated now, it might be impossible to find them all.

It was now or never. The Prophet had told them to seek Kalimdor. There they could escape the Alliance, make a new home for themselves, and face the shadow of the Burning Legion that would come to cleanse the world. The former masters of the orcs would never again set their stranglehold on his people.

"RAAAAAAAAGH!" Thrall cried out. The orcs echoed his call.

**End of Act IV**

And there you have it. The Burning Legion has arrived and the forth act has finally closed. Now the story will begin to focus on the orcs as well as the war in Lordaeron, and the plot will split into two parallel lines: Kalimdor and Lordaeron. Now the Third War descends into its bloodiest and most violent days. Hope to see you all soon and thanks for tagging along with me so far. From here on it's all out!

-Omegatroper


	26. Chapter 25: Landfall, Fallen Land

**Act V**

**Chapter 25: Landfall, Fallen Land  
**

Somewhere in the Great Sea, 614 break of spring

Sunlight streamed through the ripped sails of the boats. The massive flotilla which had borne the orcs across the sea was now drowning.

"Warchief, our ships sustained heavy damage in the raging Maelstrom. They are unsalvageable." A grunt reported to him as he sloshed through the water.

"Indeed. The sea and sky were not kind to us, and neither was the place we landed." Thrall replied. He gazed out into the bay where his portion of ships had been blown to. Great spires of limestone jutted through the water. Coral reefs and sandbars had been just as bad a problem. Dozens of ships had run around before even reaching a half mile of the shore. Most of the Horde had been rescued though, with only a few trolls from the newly initiated Darkspear tribe unable to be saved.

"So, can we confirm this location? Might this be Kalimdor?" Thrall turned to a small war council of Darkspear trolls and orcs. These were his commanders: the shaman Drek'thar, the witch doctor Vol'jin, and a dozen other chieftains and clan representatives. Almost half of the meeting was missing

"We traveled due west, as you instructed. This should be it." Nag'roth of the Bleeding Hollow replied, thumping his fist on his chest in a sign of respect.

"Very well. Has there been any sighting of Grom Hellscream or the other ships?" Thrall then asked, moving onto the more pressing subject.

"Not since we were separated in the storm, Warchief. Hellscream was last sighted heading due northwest of us." Drek'thar responded, his raspy voice quieting the bickering warlords. Drek'thar was one of the few remaining original shamans, and had preserved all the knowledge he could of the past world of the orcs. In the old orcish society, the elder shamans had demanded as much respect as even a chieftain. It was exactly those ways that Thrall was trying to return his people to.

"Mph. Prepare to move out. If indeed Hellscream and the rest of our comrades made it here, we should find them along the coast."

And so the Horde left behind its ships, moving along the coasts and grasslands across the rugged terrain of Kalimdor. The days slipped into weeks. Once, they encountered one of the ships smashed against the rocks so hideously that its very structure had come apart and washed up as flotsam. There were fresh corpses of orcs, slain by primitive weaponry. The bodies of strange fishmen were also left, signifying some kind of battle that had taken place.

Following the tracks of he surviving orcs inland, the land turned from thickets and hardy grass to loose dirt and great boulders. It had been there that they witnessed a battle between queer looking creatures with bodies that were half horse, half mannish fighting pig like humanoids. Thrall simply shook his head at the sight. He'd led his people here to escape senseless conflict.

Again the Horde moved through the strange new land, and witnessed great and dismal sightings. A huge war band of the horsemen had traveled through a valley seemingly dressed for war, while more and more orc and troll bodies were found along the way.

The Horde, including its she-orcs and orclings, had been more than sixty five thousand strong when they departed Lordaeron. Now Thrall could barely roster forty thousands. Their baggage line reached back many miles, and orc warriors patrolled up and down the huge columns prepared for any attacks from the unknown.

The remaining orcs whom hadn't been able to fit on the ships were instructed to build, steal, or haggle any vessels they could and follow suit. Thrall left many of his best commanders and leaders with the greater bulk of his people on Lordaeron, but by now they must've been traveling across the sea. It had after all been more than four months since he'd left them.

More than once the horsemen they'd seen before had attacked their columns, but in the end had been overwhelmed and forced to run. The orcs didn't have enough frost wolves to hunt them down, so the Warchief had called off the chase.

Knowing that more would come, or in an effort to at least leave instructions for stragglers from the first wave, Thrall ordered runes to be carved in the stones and tree trunks pointing out the direction of the Horde's movement.

Failing to find anything inland, the advanced guard rode with Thrall back to the coast and found a half dozen ships with another thousand orcs making camp on the beaches.

"Throm-ka Warchief! We knew you'd find us." They'd greeted him. He saluted them and joined their force with his own. As the advanced guard rode along the coast, they found more and more ships. Sometimes they were in groups, and other times completely separated. None had seen Hellscream and his portion of the fleet however, thus the march northward continued.

As the weeks passed into a month and beyond, Drek'thar began to comment on how similar the rugged and beautiful land was to their original world of Draenor. Even through the dimming vision of his failing eyes, the shaman spoke with such clarity. "But it's all gone now. Perhaps when we have accomplished what we set out to do, we can find a new home in this place." The elder shaman had spoken once to Thrall as they watched the thousands of campfire lights twinkle under the millions of stars.

Thrall approved of the idea, but thinking of new homelands would have to come later. For now, he would find the Prophet whom had brought them here and seek out the destiny that had been foretold to him.

The day came when Thrall and his wolf riders had been scouting out the wilderness when another sudden attack from the horsemen came. Speaking in strange horseish tongues, the primitives had charged.

The orcish riders clashed with the horsemen and a great battle had ensued, leaving many of his riders, and their even more precious wolves, slain. Thrall had called on the elements of the world to crush the invaders and turn the tide. He'd wanted to take some prisoners to try and pry information out of, but his riders had been blood lusted and slew every last one of them on the battlefield.

It was then that from a copse of nearby scrabbletrees that several massive bull-like humanoids had appeared. They stood an easy eight feet tall and bore impressive totems along with other fantastic weaponry that matched their girth and height. The creatures advanced warily, but without malefic intent, or so Thrall felt.

"Put your weapons down. Stay those blades." He told his warriors. The orcs reluctantly lowered their weapons, but formed up close to their Warchief.

"I am Cairne, chief of the Bloodhoof tauren. You greenskins fight with both savagery and honor. I am intrigued by your kind." A single bullman with a shaggy brown-grey hair stood taller than the rest. He strode forward and bowed deeply. The fur on the back of his neck was twined into braids that bore many charms in them.

"You can speak orcish?" Thrall asked, surprised.

"I have been watching your people for many suns now. The spirits of nature bestowed to me the tongue of your people as I so wished, and here we stand." The corners of the creature's mouth turned up in what could only be some kind of smile.

"You can communicate with the spirits of the land? Then your people must have some kind of shamanic magic!" Thrall exclaimed. In the history of the orc's presence in Azeroth, there had never been anything that claimed the same power as their shamans. The closest things to it, or so he had been told, were the nature magics of the High Elves, but even so, they used those powers in great moderation.

"Shamanic? Magic?" Cairne echoed. "I have not been bestowed these letters by the Earthmother."

"It matters not for now. I am Thrall, and these are my orcs. We come seeking the destiny promised to us." Thrall spoke.

"Pah! Destiny? Don't be so eager, young orc. Destiny will find you. However, there is an Oracle far to the north which might be able to aid you in your search." Cairne replied.

"North? That was the direction that we saw the horsemen army heading." Thrall reflected out loud.

"_What?! _No! My village is in danger! Damn the centaurs. Meddling, abhorrent beasts that they are. Farewell young orc. I must return to my people before war befalls them." The tauren turned straight about and took off with incredible speed, leaving a path of dust behind them.

"Damn. I need to know more about this Oracle." Thrall urged his frost wolf forward, and with a bark it leapt into action.

As fast as the tauren were, his frost wolf was faster yet. As he caught up, Thrall yelled out to Cairne. "Let my people aide yours! Once this battle is over, inform me of this Oracle."

"So be it, orc. But let me warn you, the centaur do not take kindly to challengers of their power." Cairne spoke between strides.

"My people have no fear of these horsemen. We orcs will show them the true ways of battle. LOK-TAR OGAR!"

Together with the tauren, the orcish wolf riders joined battle against the centaur once again, and the horsemen fell to the ground or ran back to their masters telling of the tales of the invincible greenskinned demons from beyond the mists of the sea.

Penrose Forest

When the green comets had fallen from the sky, Valdar didn't have any idea of what would happen. The falling stars had crashed into the ground with thunderous impacts, pocking the land with great craters. Afterwards, as the growing band of men left the Grace Fields in search of their lost comrades, hundreds of refugees had suddenly appeared from their hiding places which had protected them against the Scourge, speaking of an even darker enemy. They called them demons.

Valdar peered around to see the reforming 6th Army. It wasn't really much more than a group of a two hundred or so of the force's original trained soldiers. The rest were refugees whom had been 'impressed' into service. As it turned out, one of the first groups he and Thorek Ghent had come across was led by a minor general Rogir Helmsworth whom had served under Lord Volsung in his staff. Originally Valdar had given him command, but after the lord had caused the deaths of almost two dozen soldiers in a clash with bandits who could have easily been turned to their ranks, he relegated control back to Valdar in shame.

Though he would rather have had someone else command the 'army', Valdar accepted knowing that Helmsworth didn't have it in him to lead men.

_I'll stay with you and aide you, _Helmsworth had spoken, _but I refuse to stain my soul with the blood of others so foolishly again. _

Out here in the forest Valdar sometimes climbed the trees to get a glimpse of the stars and moons. They would remind him of better times, when his brothers were alive, and when he was with Ellena. He'd almost drifted off amongst the branches of the tall trees when he heard the crackling of wood.

"Sire, our sentries brought in a man a few moments ago." Word came from one of his messengers as Valdar slipped down the tree to investigate. "He wants to talk to you."

Valdar made his way over to the large tent that had been placed between the thick stumps of half-chopped trees in the center of the camp. Inside his tent was a bedraggled man surrounded by three guards, Rogir Helmsworth, and Thorek Ghent. His men all had angry scowls etched on their faces and looked ready to slaughter the man where he stood.

"Lieutenants, who is this?" He asked, pushing the entry flaps aside. He'd made Helmsworth and Ghent his two vice commanders.

"Some damn traitor, that's who!" Ghent spat, pulling a dirk from his belt and ran his finger along the edge.

"Please! It's not my fault!" the bedraggled man fell to his knees. His face was filthy and he had a thick, untrimmed beard and a tangled mass of hair that cascaded around his shoulders. "I can help you!"

"This man's a mage. Casper Valus, of Lordaeron's Royal Court. He heard of our force and came here looking for refuge. He's being chased by the demons." Helmsworth answered.

"So there are demons on their way here?"

"It would seem so."

The quiet little countryside spot they'd worked so far to keep a secret from the Scourge and these newcomer enemies was now blown.

"I can help. I know about these demons! I studied in Dalaran for many years. There are classifications-er, felhounds, infernals, and m-mo-more!" the man had a desperate look in his eyes.

"Yeah, your felhounds sniffed the magic you wrap around yourself. You probably led 'em straight here!" Thorek accused. "Even if you didn't, the name Valus is infamous. You may have been in the graces of ol' King Terenas back in the day but we know all about your crimes!"

"Crimes?" Valdar's eyebrow rose.

"This bastard turned cloak even before the first hint of the Plague hit the capitol where he sat getting fat off the land. He was seen fighting _with _the Undead on more than one occasion." Thorek explained, his face turning beet-red.

"I erred. I have sinned, I know. I was promised the knowledge of the truth of the world and the secret of life by the Voice, but when I refused to kill anymore, they attacked me but I escaped. I now see that there was no truth in the promise of the Lich King, and that I was more than a fool to ever have believed his words." Valus' eyes were hidden by his gray streaked hair, but tears were visibly pouring down his face.

"Why are you here, traitor?" Valdar stepped closer to Valus. "Was it to lead the demons here? Or the Scourge? Perhaps you're seeking something else though…"

"Great lord, I seek redemption. I wish to purify myself of the actions I took against my fellow man. The things I did…the things I saw…" Casper Valus' voice broke into a round of sobs. The bones seemed to jab from beneath his skin. He'd indeed gone a long time without food. There were scars on his bare arms and chest, as well as a oozing ulcer on his shoulder.

"Redemption, eh?" Valdar pondered the thought.

"Let me gut him Valdar." Thorek looked at him with dark eyes. Helmsworth simply stood still waiting for his order.

"How deeply employed in the Scourge were you?" Valdar spoke after a long minute of thinking.

Casper suddenly threw his head back and looked at Valdar for the first time since he'd entered the tent. His strange purple eyes shone with tears and the weight of his sins.

"I was taught the arts of necromancy and worked directly for those who call themselves the _dreadlords_. I know the structure of the Scourge's command, their goals and ambitions and for the moment where their major concentrations are."

"And what can you tell us of these demons that are purging the lands?"

"They are the Burning Legion, a vast army of infernal beings from beyond this world. They aspire to clean all life from Azeroth and are in league with the Scourge. Before I left, I was told that they would be leaving these shores for some far off continent quite soon." Casper's words blurted out. The man continued to speak for many minutes about the undead and the demons. His knowledge was indeed great.

"You do know that even if you fight with us, you can never rid yourself fully of the crimes you committed by your own will?" Valdar said as the man finally quieted.

"Yes." Casper admitted. "But if I can relieve my soul of some of this burden, I will be able to accept rid some of this guilt off me and be able to rest with at least some peace when death finds me."

"Very well. You will fight with us, but when this is over you will be tried by a court of peers. We will see then what the weight of your sin is." Valdar finished.

"What?! You can't be serious, Valdar!" Thorek exploded.

"You will refer to me as Colonel Commander as long as you serve under me and will obey my orders without question. If we do not have order, we have nothing!" the young knight yelled.

There was silence for a moment. "You're a disgrace, Valdar. You lack the backbone to do what's right!" Ghent shouted out.

"I was at Stratholme, need I remind you."

"And you think the mindless slaughter of sleeping civilians was justified?" Ghent stabbed at the tree that helped hold up the tent with his dagger.

Valdar fell silent as Ghent pulled his dirk from the wood and stormed out of the meeting room.

As soon as Ghent had vacated a horn blew three times; three times meant incoming enemies.

"Valus, you go with Gene-lieutenant Helmsworth and aide him as he wills." Valdar switched his gaze to Helmsworth. "If you so much as sense that he's about to run, slay him where he stands without second thought."

"Very good, sir." Helmsworth took Valus by the arm with a strong grip and left the tent.

Outside a crowd had gathered, hearing the argument. Only a few of the soldiers were preparing for the attack. Most had gathered about. Not even Thorek had been able to pierce the wall of men, Valdar saw. The night air seemed to take an eerie green glow to it, as it always did when the demons approached. Instead of taking their posts and raising their weapons, they all stared at him wide eyed.

"Why should we follow a man who gets scolded by his subordinates!?" one man shouted.

"Even if we do become an army, there's no country left to save!" Another cried out.

"Forget this nonsense and leave while you can!"

Murmurs went through the crowd. The hundreds of soldiers that were supposed to be the initial core of the new army began to disperse. He was losing them. The fragile threads that held them together were dissolving.

Valdar watched as his force began to melt away. Inside he felt something growing. First he thought it was shame, but as it grew knew it was something different. Emotions swirled and swelled, building into a torrent of energy. Suddenly they burst forth.

"HOLD YOUR TONGUES!" he shouted in his loudest voice. The men stopped in their tracks.

"There are enemies out there, and you run? What happened when you ran in the winter? Thousands were slain, and the remnants took to living like dogs in the woods and fields. You became bandits and outlaws in a country that no longer existed. You abandoned morals when there was no standard. The flame in your hearts dipped to its lowest.

There is no more king on the throne, but what was the king but the face of the people? Is this what becomes of men when they are leaderless? If so, then I am ashamed to call myself human.

But I have sinned, the same as Casper Valus and the same as all of you! What happened at Stratholme was the epitome of judgment; it was the choice that damns one for even the most noble of causes. Stratholme was my sin, as well as Arthas Menethil's and any man who didn't speak out against it.

That makes me as human as the rest of you. If it takes proof to show the strength of the human spirit let the heavens send forth all their legions and I will fight. Let the Seven Hells empty and I will fight against them.

Lordaeron is no more, but its ideal still exists. Its people still exist. The banner remains as a symbol of the times when humanity thought it knew itself. Never again will we return to those days, but it is now through the trials that we suffer now that we will emerge victorious, or perish forever from the face of this world.

Across the world, war rages. Men die in new ways and old ways. New enemies arise and attempt to conquer us and eliminate the flame of our lives, but in the end what are they trying to do but conquer our spirit! Even if our spirit be burdened by undeniable sin, men can still fight! So I say, let the enemy come! I will test my strength against his and in the end he with the greatest will shall prevail. I know not about you, but I will prove, even if it is only to myself that the human spirit is something that cannot be shattered when we resolve to fight for all we hold dear.

I will not let the size of my enemy daunt me. I will not let the speed of my enemy daze me. I will not let the number of my enemy desist me. I will fight against everything if needs be to uphold the tenant that those few who stand here with me today bear the true color of strength.

Let loose the dogs of war, and I will fight with every fiber of my might to live and win!" Valdar pulled his bastard sword from it's sheathe and pushed through the thicket of men towards the sounds of the coming demons.

A silence fell over the camp. As Valdar stalked off he heard a voice shout.

"To arms! You heard the Colonel Commander. Rise up, you Dogs of War! Show these demons they trifled with the wrong men!"

Valdar slowly turned to see Thorek Ghent standing atop a crate grinning at him. Men began to take up a cheer and bare their steel. They rushed forward and flooded past him, intent on killing the first inhuman thing they beheld. They were blood lusted. A man with a staff ran past him. He looked up to see a tattered flag, snow white with the azure rune of Lordaeron.

"_The Dogs of War! The Dogs of War!" _the men cried out as they engaged in combat with the monsters. Soon, the forest floor was alight with the fiery blood of the Burning Legion.

Darrowshire, one week later

"Quiet now." Joseph Redpath whispered.

Behind him three men followed, all from the Darrowshire militia. They made their way silently through the brush of the forest. A silver creek gushed nearby, covering the sound of their footsteps. There were Scourge about, and worse, the demons.

Those infernal beasts had completely obliterated the two other outlying towns that Darrowshire had contact with, leaving nothing but ashes and the skeletal remains of buildings.

The demons were even more relenting and bloodthirsty than the Scourge, but they didn't seem to be in much of a hurry to stamp out any sign of resistance. It was as if things were already quiet enough for them.

Undead still roamed the land however, and they seemed to be content in cleaning up anything the demons didn't already destroy. When the demons first came, Joseph had nearly despaired. Not even the might of the Alliance could stand up to the Scourge and then this…

But his hopes, and indeed those of the town's had been renewed when a contingent of Knights of the Silver Hand had come bearing food stuffs and relief supplies. Their leader, Davil Crokford, whom was now named the Lightfire, had returned to his hometown to aid them through the struggle. The Lightfire had brought the first news of the outside world to the isolated and remote Darrowshire in many years.

_The demons are legion, and they kill anything in sight. They are able to sniff out any magic and eliminate our mages with ease. Lordegarde is plague-infested and abandoned, Calia Menethil is missing, and not too long ago word came of more invasions in the southern provinces. It seems nowhere is safe. Our lines buckle every time we form up to fight them, but there is hope yet. _ Crokford had said, pointing out various locations of both demon and undead sightings across the continent. He spoke of the vicious battle at Dalaran and how the undead had almost been on the run when the first demons descended upon the lines of Stromgarde and crushed the battlements of the city.

_There have been rumors, _the Lightfire continued, _that the forces of Stormwind have finally begun to link up with the fleets of Kul Tiras and ferry troops across the Great Sea, though there are a great many storms this time of year which will undoubtedly slow them down. As well as that, apparently Jaina Proudmoore of Kul Tiras usurped nearly a forth of the King's fleet and sailed off into oblivion. Where in the Seven Hells that cowardly girl has run to I don't know, but she should have stayed here and helped her people. _

If indeed the Kingdom of Stormwind had finally gathered enough material and galvanized a war effort, then the tides of the war could possibly be evened. The demons, though powerful and numerous, were not invincible. The fear they gave off was their greatest ally; after all, Joseph admitted he too would be daunted by facing a ten foot golem of flaming rock.

The greater daemons, however, were a different story. It had been said that the most powerful of them all had crushed the entire city of Dalaran using but his fingers and a few incantations, but there had to be SOME way to defeat them.

"There it is." Someone said.

"Does he even live there anymore?" Another asked.

Indeed, there stood the house they'd been looking for. The structure was a rugged log cabin of two floors, and though it looked sturdy enough, it seemed as if no one had bothered to maintain it in many years. There was a stack of fresh firewood outside the front door however.

"He's there. Let's go, but act natural. He can shoot us all down before we can react if he thinks us robbers, or worse, undead." Joseph answered.

The militiamen left the brush and began heading up the winding path up the hill towards the house of Nathanos Marris. It was said that Nathanos was the only human to ever have been deemed worthy to learn of the elven ranger's ways. As rumor went, he spent the entire Second War fighting either in Quel'thalas against the orcs or with contingents of high elven troops. His name was legendary, but also feared.

As the group turned the final bend, the hiss of arrows penetrated the air. Four arrow shafts with brightly colored feathers dug into the hard dirt beneath Joseph's feet. For a moment, he simply stood stunned. The house was at least another sixty yards away, but the arrows had found their mark landing almost in a perfect row.

"Nathanos! It's me, Joseph Redpath!" he cried out. There was another moment's silence.

"Redpath? What the hell are you doing out here?" a voice called back. The front door swung open and a man in leather jerkin with a craggy face stepped out, a longbow in hand.

"I could ask you the same. Why is it that an asset like you is holed up in your home and now out helping the war effort?" Redpath replied, moving closer. He held an arm up instructing his men to remain where they were.

"War effort?" Marris let out a hearty laugh, throwing his head back. "What war effort? When Terenas died all went to hell, and now with these…demons, quite literally. I returned to my home to live out what remains of my years in what peace I can find."

Joseph eyed the other man. What had sapped him of his spirit? Long ago, when he'd first met the infamous Nathanos Marris the man was the epitome of strength and honor.

"In any case, why do I find you on my doorstep old friend? Have you come to share a cup of tea with me? If so, I'm sorry to say but I'm quite lacking in drink. I don't even have whiskey. Only this grape-y heavy-wine. Damn war."

"I didn't come a thirty miles to drink with you, Nathanos. I'm wondering if you'll join up with Davil Crokford and his paladins in their quest to help relieve Tyr's Hand of the siege." Redpath said.

"Well now, that sounds like quite the adventure. Sorry to say though, I'm quite done with adventures. I'm an old man, and I just want to rest."

That was half a truth at least. Nathanos Marris was now fast approaching his fifty fifth birthday. He was a veteran of many great battles, and visited far off lands. His hair had already begun to shade with gray and white, and it seemed he hadn't shaved in a year.

"Please, Nathanos-" Redpath was cut off before he could even begin.

"_Don't. _I wonder why you're even fighting yourself. You're no spring chicken, Joseph, and besides, I thought you swore of fighting and alcohol at the end of the last war."

"Well, I have never been a man to stay away from drink too long. What makes you think war is different? It corrupts and cripples men all the same." Joseph said with a smile on his face.

Nathanos bellowed with the same laugh he'd carried for years now. Ever since Redpath had met the man, he'd always had the laugh of five men in his chest. "True, too true," He admitted, chest still heaving. "but there's a vast difference between us, Joseph. Like you, I've seen enough of war, unlike you; I don't have something to fight for anymore. My country is gone. Both of them, mind you. Lordaeron is a kingless shamble, and Quel'thalas is a burned crisp. It shouldn't be too long before the rest follow suit."

Marris reached for the wine sack. "To kings Terenas and Anasterian! Glorious they were. Hideous were their falls." He took four great swallows.

Joseph felt anger flare in him. He stomped up and knocked the wine sack out of Marris' hands with one fist and punched him square in the jaw with the other. Had Marris not taken those gulps of heavy-wine he would have easily skipped away from the blows and probably had the time to fill Redpath's gut with a few of his pretty arrows.

Nathanos stumbled and spat out a glob of spit, red from wine and blood.

"You're just a pathetic old man, Nathanos. We respected you the same as any other hero. Now look at you; on your hands like some miserable drunk. Where was the fire that I saw in the Second War?" Joseph yelled, fuming.

"It died with the King - Kings, actually." Faster than Joseph ever believed humanly possible, Nathanos Marris leapt to his feet and drew an elvish dagger to his throat.

"You can still fight for the people. Don't you remember? That was your inspiration…back then…" Joseph tried to worm his way out of Marris' strong grasp.

"Hmm…perhaps you have a point, Joseph." He said suddenly, pulling the dagger away. "But as it seems, they've finally come. Guess I won't get to help you after all."

"Wha-?"

A piercing scream echoed through the surrounding forest. It was the familiar battle call of ghouls.

"Run, Joseph. Go and protect the people you love so much. I'll stay here and hold them off. It's me they probably want anyway. I knew they would come eventually."

"Come with us. You could help Darrowshire at least!"

"No, it's me they want. Just take your men and run." Nathanos have Joseph a hard shove, and turned to face the growing sound of undead troops marching towards the hill.

Unable to suade Nathanos, Joseph dejectedly took his men into the nearest cover but remained there.

"Sir, we should really get going." One of his militiamen said.

"No. This is something I need to see." He replied, his tone sad.

A great horde of ghouls emerged from the eastern clearance of the woods and marched up towards the Marris Stead. One however seemed to stand taller than the others, and had a certain light in his eyes: intelligence.

"Nathanos Marris! The Scourge comes! Offer no resistance and you suffer a un-painful death. Fight, or aid the Darrowshire, and you find unhappy unlife waiting!" The ghoul screamed. Redpath recognized the beast. He was one of the ones whom had attacked Darrowshire before.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I've suddenly realized something. I won't be giving up as easily as you want me to, friend." Joseph heard Marris' voice return.

A dozen arrows whizzed by the ghouls, each finding its target in the nerve stems that connected the heads to the body. The monsters charged, though the sentient ghoul remained behind.

"The coward." One of the militiamen spat.

Redpath glimpsed Marris running into the house and barring the door shut. Arrows began to fly from various window slits. The only thing giving away Nathanos' position was the brief appearance of his bow before he shifted to another location. A good three score of the ghouls had been downed before ever even reaching the homestead. More began to pour out of the woods to the east however. The tide seemed to swell and surround the house. There was no way Nathanos could deal with them all, no matter how good his aim or how impressive his fighting skills.

"Sir, we really need to go." Someone pulled at Redpath's cloak. The sound of slavering, hungry ghouls began to come closer to them.

"Very well then. There's nothing more to see here." Joseph replied. He walked backward a few steps, and finally broke his gaze when a bright flash lit up the hill. The sound of an explosion thundered through the treetops and sent birds flying. Joseph Redpath didn't look back.

Somewhere in Lordaeron

Tichondrious slipped in and out of space-time with a green flash. His cold and calculating mind knew exactly where to go. He could literally smell the fear and suffering of the people and the land, especially where Mannaroth went.

Another flash and he emerged on a cliff overlooking what might have been a scenic town a month ago, but was now in flames. Blood flowed in the streets like rivers and bits and pieces of human corpses were scattered about in shocking positions.

He witnessed one ghoul run down a helpless maid and began to tear away at her flesh with it sharpened teeth. The woman screamed at first, trying to call out someone for help. Soon her calls for help became prayers of death, but the ghoul was merciless and ripped out the woman's innards, dragging her intestines away as it lost interest whilst the human still throttled and jerked.

Unfeeling, unremorseful, and completely dismissive of the slaughter, Tichondrious zapped again this time right into the middle of the burning village.

"Hail, mighty Mannaroth. How goes the invasion?" Tichondrious asked, looking up at the mighty pit lord. The gargantuan demon had been charged with butchering anything that yet lived in Lordaeron, and seemed to be doing its job well enough.

Boredom flickered across Mannaroth's twisted face. "BAH! These frail humans offer no _real _resistance." The pit lord turned to face the nathrazim. Mannaroth's eight eyes were dark as the darkest void, but when he spoke the green fire of demonic magic shone from within his gullet.

"Then the Scourge did its job well, unlike some others I could name." Tichondrious spoke.

Mannaroth roared and smashed his huge spear into the ground sending shockwaves and fissures throughout the town. "Do not mock me dreadlord! I am aware of the orcs failure! When I find them, I will discipline them _myself!" _

"Yes, actually, that's why I've come. I thought you might like to know that the orcs are no longer here."

"What?! Are you certain?"

"As certain as ever, Mannaroth. My agents, at least, are dependable. They tell me that the orcs have landed on the shores of Kalimdor."

"KALIMDOR? BAH! What could they possibly want there? It doesn't even matter. The orcs are mine by blood right. It doesn't matter where they run to."

A flash of blue light engulfed the world for a moment, and when it dissipated the Lord Archimonde stood in its wake.

"**And you are MINE, Mannaroth. You would do well to remember that fact. We will watch the wayward orcs, and wait. Despite their failure, they might still prove useful to us.**" Archimonde's voice boomed. The very fires themselves seemed to try and escape his presence.

"Yes, Lord Archimonde." The two lesser demons replied in unison. It was unwise at best to anger Lord Archimonde.

"**As for now, we finish the destruction of his pitiful continent. Then we will leave the remnants for the Scourge and leave for Kalimdor. Soon we will finish the job we started ten thousand years ago." **The fire in Archimonde's eyes burned hotter than any other flame on Azeroth. In them were desire, and ambition, but also patience and cold anylization. Azeroth was the key to becoming as great as Sargeras himself.

(Hey everyone. Sorry for the late chapter but I didn't have my computer with me over Spring Break and couldn't write. Next chapter should be a double-chap though to make up for it, and I'm going to try to write it out quickly before all my tests start. Thanks so far for the continued support and advice. Like I said in the beginning, if anyone has suggestions you can PM me or email me on the email I left in the author's note in Chapter 1. Thanks again, see you soon.)


	27. Chapter 26: The Long March 1

(Here's the double chapter installment. Enjoy)

**Chapter 26: The Long March 1: New World**

The Barrens, Kalimdor

"The Earthmother arose in the mists of the Dawn-time and molded what is in existence into being. We tauren were her children, and we wielded the great powers of the earth as you do today, though we grew arrogant and forgot them after the Cataclysm ten thousand years ago." Cairne's gruff voice echoed through off the canyon walls.

Together, the Horde and the tauren had fended off the centaur army assaulting the latter. Thrall had promised Cairne escort in return for knowledge of the mysterious Oracle he'd spoken of earlier. If anything, this Oracle would aid the Horde in finding its purpose for coming to this land.

"And you say the centaur rose to power after this Cataclysm?" Thrall asked.

"Yes. The centaurs completely abandoned the Earthmother, and abhor all things that she created, and thus would see us tauren doomed to the Afterscape. My people were nomadic and scattered even further from the increasing tribal conflict between the centaur and other tauren, who like the centaur, abandoned their faith in the Earthmother." Cairne continued.

He'd been telling the tale of his people's past ever since the Bloodhoof tribe had been saved, and seemed extremely eager to learn of the orcs. Thrall believed it was their shamanic powers that interested him most, though the elderly tauren never gave any hint of lust for their power. Instead he absorbed all that Thrall had to tell him of the orcs with relish, pointing out the similarities in their people's past.

Thrall saw potential in the tauren. Their massive weight and titanic strength could serve the Horde well, if in the end Cairne decided to join his own forces. But Thrall had decided not to force the tauren into their fold. There was no need for any more enemies or bad blood in this already hostile land.

The sun was rising in the east, blood-red and angry. Heat waves were emerging over the long columns of orc warriors, trolls, and tauren. They exited the canyon and came upon a dusty savannah that Cairne called the 'Barrens'. In all directions the plains stretched with a few squat trees here and there marking the watering holes.

"We'll need to rest the kodos as we make our way to Mulgore. One of the watering holes to the north should do the job, as long as we don't encounter any more centaurs along the way." Cairne spoke, shifting towards Thrall.

The orc wiped a film of sweat from his brow and took another swig of the briny water they'd collected at the last stop. He nodded and stopped his wolf at the mouth of the canyon, watching his advanced guard pass along with the tauren tribals. His own people shot curious glances at the shaggy bull men, and the tauren seemed to marvel at the sheer number of orcs, even if they were just a frontal element force.

The tauren themselves didn't seem to have many people. There were barely a hundred and fifty in Cairne's group, and less than a third of them were warriors. These hundred and fifty made up the whole of the Bloodhoof tribe, but as Cairne mentioned, the tauren gathered in great numbers when threat of the centaur flamed up again, as they were doing these days.

In fact, half the reason the Bloodhoof were trying to make their way to the Mulgore plains was so they could meet up with the other tribes and band together against the increasing war bands of centaurs.

"War with the horse-men is almost as if a once-in-a-decade event for these tauren." The Bleeding Hollow's Nag'roth said, breaking his frostwolf from the line.

"Indeed." Thrall replied.

"Warchief…there is something my warlord has wished to discuss with you." Nag'roth spoke hesitantly.

"If Jin'khan wanted to say something to me, then why not say it to my face?" Thrall's eyes narrowed.

"He wishes to know when the Warlords will gain autonomy of their clans again. He says it has been too long, and that many orcs yearn for the old days, when a clan was free to follow its traditions, and go its own way."

Thrall felt his temples ache and pulse with blood. This was the same kind of problem he'd been dealing with for years now.

"Nag'roth…make sure you tell your _khelum _warlord this. The old ways are returning, and will return; but not the old ways of fifteen, twenty, or even thirty years ago. We are going to find our home in this new land, and the settle it as the Horde, not as a confederation of clans as we once were. The orcs have lost too much power and too many people to live that way and survive in an entirely new world.

It is now that we need unity the most. I understand that the clans wish to keep their traditions, and they may do so. I have no qualms against it. Most orcs have already fallen in behind my idea of a Horde with one single clan: one single people. It's that way we're at our strongest. As that unstoppable, impenetrable Horde, even the humans couldn't stop us. Now, enough of this. We-" Thrall's speech was cut off by a low moaning from over the horizon.

An arrow suddenly pierced Nag'roth's chest. The orc grunted and heaved backwards off his frostwolf, but not before plucking the arrow out of his chest in a plume of blood.

"CENTAUR!" he heard Cairne cry out.

More arrows whizzed by, sending puffs of dirt or blood up into the air. The centaur were above them on the cliffs. Thrall pointed to them, but as soon as he had he spotted another three lines of centaur racing towards the column.

"Take to battle positions! Protect the kodos!" he shouted.

"_Lok-regar garem Warchief!" _a new group took up chanting. Out of the canyon came hulking orcs with muscles rippling beneath onyx chain mail and golden plated helms. They were the elite, the Kor'kron. Thrall had formed them out of the most loyal and powerful of the gladiators he'd found in the arenas the humans had set up in the internment camps.

The orcs in the line braced themselves, preparing for the two sided attack. The Darkspear trolls fired back at the centaur archers on the cliff tops with their long, poison shafted spears.

"Kill them all!" Thrall bellowed. The orcs charged forward.

Greenskinned orcs and centaur clashed in the heat of the barren savannah, blood purple and red being splashed across the dead grasses. Axe and hatchet smashed together in flurries of sparks whilst flails and clubs danced.

"Kor'kron to the left flank!" the Warchief ordered as he saw another wave of centaur emerge over a grassy knoll with a leafless tree on it.

The sound of galloping hooves, screaming wounded, and grinding weapons filled the world, and Thrall felt the familiar orcish bloodlust begin to fall on him.

_Spirits give me strength. Grant me wisdom. Lend me your power. _

Thrall slowly let his racing mind calm and connect with the land. The sounds of battle receded and the voices of the spirits began to rise. Air, earth, water, fire, and wilds all called out to him, though they didn't necessarily decide to give away their strength so easily. Air chose to aide Thrall, and granted him the power necessary for the battle.

The orc suddenly opened his eyes once again. Around him the orcs gave berth as they saw the white flame streaming from his pupils. Air began to swirl around him, picking up dust and loose grass. Electricity crackled around his right hand. The orc's hair began to rise on end and float aimlessly in the wind. In a fell swoop, Thrall pointed his index and middle finger at the oncoming centaur column and loosed the power.

For a moment the world went blue and white as a continuous stream of lightning shivered through the air. The target was flung in the air like a rag doll, and he crashed into the leafless tree before he could even let out a scream. The bolt jumped from centaur to centaur, passing through their bodies and searing anything in its way. As soon as the magic had been performed, it was over. At least a dozen of the centaur were dead, another half dozen dying in agony. The tree's upper branches were on fire, and the battle seemed to have stopped.

In a single moment the centaur army suddenly disintegrated. They'd suddenly lost all cohesion in panic sight of the attack and broke.

"Wolf riders, after them!" The orcish wolfriders suddenly broke off from the line and began to give chase.

Thrall whistled loudly with his thumb and index in his mouth and suddenly appeared his frostwolf, Snowsong. He grasped Snowsong's reins and deftly swung onto her back, helping his orcs give chase.

The retreating centaurs galloped over the ridge and their broken comrades, shouting something in their strange, horseish language. Before Thrall and his riders could even pass over the ridge, he heard a sudden war cry: high pitched and wailing. It was the cry of the Warsong Clan!

As his wolf riders topped the hill, they saw a spectacular sight. The hundreds of fleeing centaur had run right into a Warsong party, and were being easily slaughtered. A purple banner with Hellscream's emblem was rippling in the wind, confirming Thrall's recognition.

"Well then, don't let the Warsong take all your honor!" Thrall grunted with a smile. His warriors roared and thundered down the hill. Together, all but a few of the centaur were slain by the wolf riders and the Warsong party.

As the final centaur disappeared over the horizon, the chase finally ended. Thrall led his warriors back to the mount-less Warsong party, who'd already begun to meet up with the main body of the Horde.

"Lok-tar ogar, warrior. You are from the Warsong Clan, yes?" he asked their leader, a tall orc with a jutting jaw and oversized lower fangs. The bloodlust was receding from this orc as well as his followers, though unlike regular orcish battle fever the Warsong was still afflicted by the demonic curse they'd contracted long ago, back on Draenor. It was that same curse that nearly led their people to utter destruction.

"Throm-ka Warchief. Indeed, we are of the Warsong. Hellscream sent us out to search for you, though we've had some trouble with these horsemen. We heard the sounds of battle and gladly joined. Turns out it was our fellow orcs who were fighting as well. A good day it is." The orc replied, the unsettling red glow of the blood lust in his eyes slowly dissipating.

"Where is Hellscream? And how many orcs follow him? We've spent nearly a month putting the Horde back together, but we still haven't found everyone." Thrall explained the situation.

"The warlord has a good few thousand under his command. They are further north, past the entrance to the lush grasslands to the west."

"That must be Mulgore. If it's so close, Cairne will be glad to know of this. Thank you warrior and welcome back to the Horde." Thrall thumped his fist against his chest and the Warsong chief did the same.

"Aka'maggosh, Warchief!"

The long march had put strain on everyone in the Horde, and that much was evident by the sunburns and bored faces. For many, the horsemen had proved of little challenge.

_Soon, Cairne will depart to Mulgore and we will meet up with Hellscream. When we've reunited our forces, we can continue towards the Oracle and uncover our destiny. The destiny of the Orcs. _ Thrall's thoughts drifted once more to the past, and then the future. Soon, everything would unfold.

Somewhere in Lordaeron

Mannaroth hated overseeing the underlings. Leadership was a tedious task. He preferred the straight carnage of battle, where everything was clear cut; the joy of killing, the jolting pulses of wounds, the simple divide between enemies. Before him stood many thousands of the Legion's warriors, tearing up some city while all he could do was watch. Rage boiled through his already burning blood, and he felt the rapture of his muscles tensing in want of a fight.

Pit lords were far more suited for combat than bureaucracy he'd told some nathrazim once. He didn't remember which one though. They all seemed the same; cold, calculating, always seeking to gain more power within the Legion with their scheming.

Mannaroth hated nathrazim. They were the ones who'd first backed and then discredited his personal blood-slaves, the orcs. They had then surpassed him with the Scourge. And for that reason he hated the undead as well.

"Lord Mannaroth." A voice called out to him.

"What is it, little human?" the massive pit lord turned his head from the assembly of demons.

"The Scourge is ready for your bidding. My warriors have awaited your command for some time now." A human garbed in black plate with snowy white hair stared at him emotionlessly, though Mannaroth sensed reproach in the death knight's voice.

"I will use the Scourge when I need them. As of now, the Legion has things under control."

Arthas Menethil crooked an eyebrow up. "You could at least send the Scourge to do something not being done right now."

"Stop bothering me, else my fist might accidentally crush your head, human." Mannaroth said in a gruff tone. He'd had enough of these damn mortals. How long would Archimonde make him suffer in the company of these puny creatures?

"Lord Mannaroth, I believe that you're ignoring your commands. You were ordered to use all available force to crush anything that yet lived. The Scourge is ready to strike where you command. Be it in southern Lordaeron or Stromgarde or Gilneas." Arthas commented in an annoyingly confident voice.

Mannaroth's eyes blazed with green fire and fury. He turned to face the human.

"I've had enough of your prattle!" Mannaroth raised his pike threateningly, though Arthas seemed uncowed.

And then a voice spoke out, the words seemingly coiling around Mannaroth's throat. "I think you'd best listen to the boy, Mannaroth. He has the right of it."

The demon froze. Slowly he turned his head to see a figure standing directly at his left.

"Haures…" Mannaroth hissed.

There stood Haures, a Lord of the Legion in his own right. His forehead was swathed in a tarnishing cloth-of silver wrap, with great golden shoulder pauldrons resting upon his frame. Two orbs of amethyst flame burned in a strangely handsome face. His chest piece, which bore his sigil, also had inset a large black gem which seemed to suck the air from around it. To Mannaroth, he was as small as a human, but his power was great. Great enough to make him realize crushing the little death knight was not worth his time, or even a mistake.

"Pah…do with the undead as you wish, Haures. I won't partake in their activities." Mannaroth spat.

"Very well. Death knight." He gestured towards Arthas.

"Yes, lord?"

"Where might your Scourge be best suited for striking next?"

"Stromgarde possesses the most potent military remaining on the continent, Gilneas not-withstanding, though they are less than likely to venture out and engage us. Other than the forces under Grand Marshal Garithos and the major resistance pocket that just flared up along the borders of the Penrose Forest, Lordaeron is a burning shamble. Reaching Kul Tiras would require us to build a fleet of ships-"

"It would require _you _to build those wooden heaps." Mannaroth interjected.

Arthas continued, "-and the High Elves are little more than a memory. Dalaran, which would have served as the next greatest threat to them is gone, so all that is left now is truly Stromgarde. That added to the fact that that is the easiest landing location for reinforcements from Stormwind, all the more reason to attack them."

"So be it. Order your Scourge to make its move, but you, and a quarter of your undead will be going with the Legion." Haures spoke.

"What? What are you talking of?"

Mannaroth smiled to see the human confused. These mortals could never comprehend the true scheme of things. In the end, he, like his orcs, were just pieces to be used and discarded.

"You will accompany Lords Mannaroth and Archimonde to Kalimdor, where you will destroy the night elves and seek out the power of their _Nordrassil._"

"What the hell are you talking about? Nordrassil? Kalimdor?" the human was easily agitated.

"Indeed. Soon, the Legion will depart the lands of Lordaeron, with a quarter of your numbers, and snuff out the vestiges of our old enemy in the lands for across the sea. There will be no arguments." Haures looked at Arthas with those mysterious, deadly eyes.

The death knight only nodded, and Mannaroth smiled. Soon he would get to face off against the night elves again. Perhaps he'd even get to have some fun and fight Cenarius once more. Yes, now he could feel his blood boiling. The Legions time was nigh.

Silverpine Forest

Cyrus Faim'las found himself facing a three great, shaggy bullbears. He conjured what magic he could, though it was a pitiful amount. There were no natural or unnatural Ley-lines in the area, and the Sunwell itself was no more.

He panted as the tiny globe of icy magic disappeared in the instant he had summoned it. _Damn it. Damn it all! _There was almost nothing he could do.

"You know there is a way for you to live. You just need to call forth the fire…" a voice called from above. It was the same bastard who had tricked him into coming out here. The same one who'd knocked him in this pit. Every now and again the man would come by and drop some food, but most of it was meat and being elvish Cyrus didn't eat it.

Every now and again at random intervals, the dirt on the wall of the pit shifted through some kind of magical amplification and opened up. Vicious beasts would emerge and attempt to claim his life, or at least the meat he had left lying on the floor. It had been a week. Or was it two? Cyrus had lost track of time in the deep hole, and eventually his body had begun to weaken from lack of food and the feeding rays of the Sunwell.

It was too much to bear. He dropped to his knees before the three bullbears, who reared and roared, stomping and ground and aiming their horns at him.

_Remember, there is a way - another way; the way of shadow and fire._ He heard the strange man call out to him again in his thoughts.

He shook his head violently, trying to get the image out of his mind. It was wrong. That wasn't the right way. That kind of power perverted and corrupted. It couldn't be that way. It just couldn't.

The bullbears bore down on him. His mind flashed through the events of the past month.

First the mysterious messenger who had come to him at the tavern. He'd spoken of finding the truth. Cyrus left, suspicious, but hopeful, that whoever these people was they could help him. He'd even thought it had been for the better that he decided to go to this group instead of Dalaran seeing as how Dalaran was utterly destroyed only days after his decision.

He'd gone to the Mosscove Caverns as bid. He'd had to solve the mystery of their location by himself seeing as how they weren't a true set of caves, and more of a piece of local folklore.

After finally appearing before the location specified, he'd been ushered into some kind of underground labyrinth where he was brought into a dark chamber. There he was questioned and prodded by unseen voices, each more grating than the last. Eventually, after he'd begun to suspect what they wanted, one of them spoke of their goal.

They'd told him that Quel'thalas was completely wiped off the face of the continent, and that Lordaeron itself was failing. Dalaran was gone for the most part as well, and Stromgarde's elite had been crushed in the Casted Vale. The voice had spoken that this group was some kind of ancient fraternity of fel magic practitioners, and somewhere along that point Cyrus had spoken out against them. He was quickly subdued and placed in some kind of prison. He'd spent a while in there, and every day they would pull him out and torture his mind with probes and threaten to give him a painful death. He realized what they were trying to do; break him.

Eventually, after strengthening his resolve, they'd thrown him into the pit and forced him to fight a multitude of things: vicious animals, undead, crazed criminals they collected. He fought and fought, as they said when they taunted him, his patience and strength were beginning to run thin.

_ "Remember, there is a way – another way; the way of shadow and fire."_

One of the bullbears' clawed paws came down on him, tearing through his robe and deep into his flesh. Cyrus let out a howl of pain, but not before another of the bears had rammed into his gut. With the air blown out of him Cyrus flew a few feet backwards, hitting the wall of the pit.

He tried conjuring the magic again. Wisps of blue appeared around his fingertips and began to coalesce. Then his vision blurred and he lost concentration. The magic fettered out of existence.

The biggest of the bullbears bore down upon him and sniffed his face with its giant, wet nose. Rearing back on its hind legs, it came down with full force on Cyrus' body. He felt several bones crack, though he couldn't tell which ones. The bear bit deeply into his shoulder, tearing out a chunk of bloody meat.

_Shadow and fire. Another way. The way to survive. _

Cyrus managed to pull his hands together, drawing a bloody pentagram on his forehead with a finger. Instead of the icy blue gathering, the magic took on a more sinister tone. It glowed a deep emerald and danced around wildly. The bullbears stepped back, cautious.

Cyrus continued to conjure the flame and the bullbears backed away even more. They roared in protest, but to no avail. The bloodied elf made his way to his feet somehow, wobbling. Glancing with half lidded eyes, he beheld the spectacle that floated mere millimeters above his hand; demon magic.

Suddenly he felt sick. It went against anything he'd ever learned. With a scream, more disgust than pain, he loosed the ball of green fire. Instantly the bullbears' fur was seared off. The creatures writhed on the ground, high pitched squeals of pain echoing off the pit's walls.

Cyrus collapsed to his knees, breathing heavily.

"Perfect!" the voice shouted from above. "A brilliant first try, Faim'las."

"Never…again. You people-revolt me."

"Oh, don't say that. If you refuse to use the gifts of the Twisting Nether, how will you fight this?"

The door in the pit opened again.


	28. Chapter 27: The Long March 2

**Chapter 27: The Long March 2: Reunion**

The North Eastern Barrens

"Mulgore is straight up this path. We seem to have gotten past the worst of the centaur lands. If our luck holds, and with the Earth Mother's blessing, my tribe will reach Mulgore by nightfall." Cairne announced.

The trek had taken almost three weeks through the harsh Barrens. Centaur attacks, harpy nests, and other dangerous wildlife had made things all the worse. Both the Horde and tauren had barely lived off the scattered and sparse waterholes, and though there was a river to the far west, it was out of the way and unreachable by the path they were taking.

For now though, the tauren would depart. Already the kodos and bullmen had begun to separate themselves from the orcs, whom they had immersed themselves with over the past few weeks. The two races had become allies through battle, brothers of war and hardship.

"Are you sure you won't be need us anymore, Cairne?" Thrall asked as he saw to the tauren's departure.

"Hah, don't coddle me, boy. I may be old, but I'm quite capable of leading my people." Cairne replied.

"My apologies, Cairne. In any case, the rest of my people, the main body of the Horde that is, should pass through the Barrens in the coming days. Could you make sure that they are properly led through this wilderness?"

"You saved my tribe and escorted us to the safety of Mulgore. Of course I will help in all ways possible. Azok! Jeddeck! Come here!" Cairne turned his neck to his best warriors.

"Yes, chief?" the two black furred tauren approached.

"You will remain with the orcs until they reach the Oracle. You will guide our friends to Stonetalon, as I will leave one from my own family to guide the rest of the orcs through the Barrens."

"Yes, chief!" Azok, with his beady blue eyes replied excitedly. Jeddeck was less inclined to the mission.

"We are to leave our people and travel with the greenskins? We barely know of them, chief." He said.

"The orcs are the only reason our tribe remains! We must repay them somehow, and if you don't have the spine to do so, then you shame us all." Cairne chided. Jeddeck stalked off with Azok, sullen.

"Jeddeck is young and wants to stay with his people to protect them, so forgive him if he is a bit rash when speaking to your orcs. Both Azok and Jeddeck will prove invaluable allies to you. I'll send another six of my best fighters under their command and my finest kodos to aide you against the perils of Stonetalon, though it will still not even the debt we owe you."

"It is no matter. All help to the Horde is welcomed." Thrall replied.

"Now you are free to continue your quest, Warchief. Legends say that it saw the strands of fate as they were woven by the Earthmother. It alone can show you your destiny. You will find the Oracle in the hollow of Stonetalon Peak, the greatest mountain of the land besides Hyjal."

"Thank you, Cairne. I, nor the Horde, will forget you." Thrall gave the sign of orcish salute and turned his frostwolf.

"Go with honor, young Warchief. May the Earthmother smile upon you, and let us meet again when the time comes."

And so all but the eight tauren promised by Cairne departed, leaving for the lush plains of Mulgore. Another week or two of heat and sweating followed, though eventually the advanced guard of the Horde approached the great red peaks jutted into the sky. There had been almost nothing to eat through the rest of the journey, so they'd had to revert to the stale bread brought from the ships.

"There lies the Stonetalon Mountains." Azok mentioned as Jaddeck led the van past a shallow riverbed. The land was getting drier by the step, and the yellow grasses gave way to red dirt.

"Took long enough tha' did, mon. The sun was killing my skinnn." Thrall turned to see Vol'jin, surrounded by a band of his Darkspear trolls. "Least there be shadow under those mountains."

The Darkspears had joined forces with the Horde ever since the two had met on that island long ago, during the initial flight from Lordaeron. So far the troll's scouting and ambushing abilities had proven invaluable. Thrall now saw why Doomhammer had spent so long trying to recruit the forest trolls of Azeroth to his cause.

The heat had put all the orcs on edge as well. They had had nothing to fight but quillboars and raving harpies. One time a disgruntled grunt had even come up to him and urged the him that the orcs needed some real enemies to test their mettle. It was just another example that showed that the boredom and hunger long march was getting to them all.

One day as the long winding column made its way between two perilously slanted mountains, one of the troll came dashing back through bush and jumping atop rock.

"Warchief! There be a fight up ahead!" the troll spoke quickly, matting down its Mohawk.

"What?" Thrall slowed his mount, letting the ranks of warriors pass by.

"The Warsong clan is up ahead—all of it, and probably more—and they're battling humans!"

"Humans!? The hell? Show me!" The troll dashed off and Thrall followed.

The two rushed through the squat trees and scraggly vegetation that clung to the ground, coming upon an escarpment that led into a bowled valley. Smoke was rising from what seemed like a camp. Orcs and humans were clashing, and though there were orc corpses lying about, the humans were definitely on the losing side.

Other orcs began to arrive, cramming together behind Thrall. He saw the eagerness on their faces, and suddenly felt it within him too.

"Lok-tar ogar warriors! Aid Hellscream! For the Horde!"

Central Lordaeron

Durin Acherton stared beyond the weedy cornfield. At the cropping of the forest which bordered the old farm a line of pickets moved forward, weapons in their hands.

"Oi, you're on my field. Get off." Durin called out.

"Like hell it's your field. All the farmers were run off this land a long time ago." A craggy faced man said, dropping out of line. "Besides, in times of war when marshal law is declared, the respective plots of peasant lands under the rule of nobles will be reverted to the King and military's use."

Durin blinked. Who the hell were these people? The soldiers were all supposed to have been killed or run away by now.

"In any case, this field is now under military jurisdiction. However, if you sign your name with the quartermaster he'll ration you a good four week's food and water. I can tell you're an old timer, so I can't press you into service. However, if you enlist willingly, you can continue to receive rations on a regular basis.

"And if I don't?"

"Then we let you on your merry way, however dangerous the countryside may be these days. But who am I to talk? I'm sure you've done a bit of banditry yourself. All crimes will be written down and punished when the marshal law is lifted, so if you wish to confess your sins you can find a priest near the quartermaster and a scribe who will write down your crimes and or grievances. However, due to the harsh times, if you enlist, all former incidents will be forgiven." The craggy faced man seemed to smile under his pointy beard.

Indeed, Durin had done some stealing here and there, even before the war. One time though, he'd even killed a man for stealing from him, however hypocritical it was. But fighting a war that was lost…? It was madness.

Durin let out a deep guffaw. "In a time when undead roam the land and demons fly from the skies you tell me that old King Terenas' ghost wants me for the army? To march north instead of fleeing south? If I had any wits about me, I'd head to Southshore and steal ashore to Kul Tiras or Stormwind!"

"Listen here, I'm just the one picked out of my company to give out information like this to any survivors we come across. As you can see-" he pointed back to the woods "we have quite a few more soldiers coming up with women and children in tow. We send them off with escorts to the south when we have the manpower, but we can't ever fully get rid of them all due to our shortages, so they stick around. We need all the help we can get. You will be paid at the end of your tenure and service."

"Ha! Haha! Ducats and crowns! What good will they do me? But very well. Where is your quartermaster? I'd be even more out of my mind to wander about these parts without my own escort, and an army is probably the closest thing to safe as I can get right now. I've lived on my own for months now. Some hot food and a sword in my hands will make me feel so much better." Durin gave a sly smile.

"You can find the quartermaster, scribe, and priest in a horse drawn cart coming up this way. They should pass through the woods soon."

"Fine, fine. Now, it seems you have quite a sizable force here. What army are you? I served with the 2nd during the last war."

"Army? We're not an official army. We're the Dogs of War."

Base of the Stonetalon Mountains, One Day Earlier 

The endless journey had finally ended. Through storm and beating sun the ships had made it through the sea, landing on what Jaina Proudmoore assumed was Kalimdor. Only, the journey wasn't over. It seemed it had just begun.

The fleet had been separated in the storm, one heading north, one south. Jaina's group landed far to the south, in some kind of dank marsh. Leaving a small force to secure the area, she'd then sailed north along the coast with what other ships that could be salvaged and regrouped with the rest of the fleet.

"This _is _Kalimdor, yes?" Balon Swiftmane had questioned time and time again. Sometimes Jaina was beginning to think he'd intentionally sent his section of the fleet away from hers on purpose during the cover of the storm. Either way, it turned out bad for him when his force got utterly lost in the vast savannah and ended up marching in circles for days on end until she'd found him.

"Yes, now we march north west to those mountains." She pointed at the great looming peaks of red which hung over the western sky.

Swiftmane had tried to get the other lords to gang up on her when they'd gotten lost in the thin valleys of the mountains, though she wasn't in the mood for philandering and politicking. Even though she'd always been humble in speech, she felt fire boil in her throat and shouted out for the man to simply shut up, stating that he was the one who wanted to take the southern course which would have led the fleet straight into the Maelstrom. He'd fallen silent since, opting to keep his distance.

So they marched: ten thousand swords with thrice that many civilians. From the landing zone to the mountains it hadn't taken more than a week to pass through the savannah. They'd spent another two weeks getting lost in the canyons and crags that crisscrossed and stretched out like a maze in all directions. All that time the Peak had haunted her.

_Seek out this place. _The prophet had told her. He gave her a vision, past the swirling vortex of the Maelstrom, through the shifting sands and strange alien landscapes, all the way to the peak of a great mountain. _There you will find the answer. _

She remembered falling to the ground, dazed with the information that had been crammed into her head. Still though, he hadn't given any information on how to reach this place. She'd had no clue where to go until Cyrus Faim'las had entrusted the ancient elven maps to her.

And the Prophet had left here there, amidst the burning ruins of Stratholme while Arthas sailed to Northrend and Uther the Lightbringer rushed to gather the forces of Lordaeron against the undead. That made her question his integrity, or was it perhaps because he knew that Cyrus would give her the maps?

In the war, not even Uther could stop the Scourge. Nothing could, it seemed. They'd swept through Lordaeron, crushing all opposition. Lordegarde, Andorhol, Stratholme, had already been devastated when the demons arrived though. She'd been warned of that as well.

Though for days and weeks before, Jaina could feel their sinister presence growing closer and closer. They had waited until the very last moment, when word of the Legion's arrival had come, and then departed. There was no way she'd risk her people to stay any longer.

And here they all here: denizens from all seven nations of humanity save Stormwind, a large contingent of high elves, and even a group of hardy dwarves who'd maintained the ships through the thick and thin of their voyage.

The fleet had been assembled into certain groups, each under their own elected command. Each of those commanders would be under Jaina's (and her personal officer's) authority though. Together they would form the Expeditionary Council.

The groups were the Stromgarde Brigade under the lordship of Peril Swiftbinder, a fellow mage, and Balon Swiftmane, the conceited nobleman from Hammerfall. The Gilneas Brigade was led by Gilian Kytso, a Duke from one of the border cities who'd been able to get out of the country before Greymane instituted put an embargo on the world. The dwarves were led by a sturdy mountain chieftain called Bor Stonebreaker, and the elves by the a scholar named Elaror Sunbreak. The Lordaeron Corps was jointly commanded by the paladin Ballador the Bright and the court mage Conjurus Rex. Jaina commanded her own personal force while the Kul Turas Elite Marines were led by a long time friend, Captain General Foxhymn.

The force had been assembled at the base of the great mountain, though each had taken to fielding their own camps, just in case of an attack by the strange horsemen who'd plagued them since the initial landings.

Jaina stood still, staring up at the peak of the great mountain. She'd been there for at least thirty minutes now, contemplating how to climb the massive thing.

"Just how do I conquer you?" she said.

The sun was beginning to fall slowly, and a few puffy white clouds had gathered. She suddenly was caught up in the past, remembering the first dance she'd had with Arthas. Pushing the thoughts out of her mind, the young mage took a step forward, and then another, reaching for the peak, almost as if it were that easy.

And then a horn had cried out. It wasn't any human horn however.

Twirling back, she rushed towards the ridge where her command tent was. A stone tower had been hastily erected next to it, so it was easy to spy things from afar. She saw the other officers arriving en masse.

"Is it the horsemen?" she asked.

"No! It's something else! I can't tell through all the smoke!" the man in the lookout tower shouted back. "It's coming from the Stromgarde camp!"

_That damn Swiftmane. What has he gotten himself into this time? He has specific orders not to engage unless there was no choice. _

"I—I can see something moving! There's of them coming from both the east and west. They have…green skin! Lady Jaina, they're orcs! The orcs are here!"

"Orcs!? She heard herself exclaim.

"Lady Jaina! Orcs!" she heard one of her officers cry out.

"What?! Impossible!" another one spoke.

Whatever was possible or not wasn't the question any more. There were orcs on Kalimdor. That meant only one thing in the eyes of her comrades: war. If things were her way though, she'd probably have parlayed with their leader and found common ground, but if the orcs had already spilled blood…

The Stonetalon Mountains, Present

The wall of green crashed into the kite shields of the humans, axes flailing and war cries resounding.

"Riders! Take the flank! Crush them amongst the rocks!" Thrall shouted out his orders. The contingent of wolf riders broke from the main formation, arcing around the main battle line and disappearing from view.

Thrall saw that the Warsong orcs had already taken care of most of the humans here, though there were bound to be more. A mage was up ahead, surrounded by footmen and casting fire spells that were searing through the Warsong orcs.

Thrall called upon the spirits, releasing a gust of wind that knocked the wizard from his horse. The grunts suddenly pushed past the wall of shields and hacked at the wizard's body, sending plumes of blood into the air.

Thrall witnessed Jaddek and Azok rush into battle, easily dealing with the humans. Their mighty totems swept aside all opposition, and even the pike men had no chance against them. Impressed, Thrall allowed them to continue their own battle.

Another contingent of soldiers, these ones with long halberds, suddenly appeared from the south. They pushed began to push the orcs back, but just then the wolf riders reappeared from behind some rock spires and crashed into their flank, rolling them up into the perfect target.

Almost as soon as the orcs and trolls from the main Horde had come into battle, the human lines had broken. The remnants of their force fled north, through a narrow pass uphill.

Thrall paraded through the battlefield while his orcs took their prizes of victory; human weapons, armor, and tools.

"You showed up just in the nick of time, little brother." A voice said from behind Thrall.

Turning, he saw Grom Hellscream, Warlord of the Warsong Clan, the Hero from Draenor, and one of the last original clan leaders. His eyes were unsettling. They carried the same red taint that the rest of his clan did. The demon blood still burned in their veins, especially during battle. The Warsong banner hung from his back, purple and glorious.

Thrall turned aside that worry however. "Grom, what the hell was this about? And how did these humans get here?"

"Not the greeting I expected, but responsible one nonetheless. Hail, Warchief." Grom bowed deeply, his fist over his heart.

"The same way we did. They're led by a frail girl named Proudmoore and have taken positions along the heights. My clan was searching for a way to occupy those heights when we stumbled upon these ones. We attacked, though they were fierce in their defense." Grom replied, shaking his head so that his long black braid would fall from his shoulder to hang behind him.

"Hmm…we need to get through that pass. I'll send trolls to scout the passes while we establish a base of operations here. Where is your clan's concentration?"

"We managed to steal through to the tops of that plateau over to the east, but haven't had the strength to push any further."

"Good then. We'll be in the perfect position for a pincer attack. However, until I give the signal after we've scouted the passes, you will _not _attack the humans. Do I make myself clear, Grom?"

"Whatever you say, Warchief."

Thrall looked as deeply into Grom as he could. Since he'd discovered his heritage in the internment camps, he'd always heard the name Hellscream and how he'd evaded capture from the humans. The name Hellscream had given him hope, and it was the Warsong who'd found him after he'd originally escaped from Durnhold. Grom had been like a brother ever since, aiding him in gaining the freedom of the orcs and was an integral part in rebuilding what the orcish people had lost. With his experience and Thrall's idealism, together they'd forged the New Horde.

Grom and his Warsongs were still afflicted with the curse of the demons, placed upon them long ago on Draenor. Thrall decided he'd best keep an eye on Grom. He tended to act out of place when his blood was up, and he'd rather reason with the humans then have to wage war with them out here in this new world.

Grom stalked off with his warriors, returning to their encampment to await further orders. Thrall set about building his own base, as more and more orcish forces poured through the valley and into the basin.

By sunset, almost all the forces were accounted for and Thrall awaited the return of his scouts. Despite telling Grom that he would attack when the time was right, he decided to parlay with the humans. He would apologize for the mishap on the Warsong's side, and offer what he could to repay them. The Warchief doubted that any good would come of it, just as back home, especially when he heard remembered that the name Proudmoore was from the royal line of Kul Tiras. The messenger would go through nonetheless and try to secure passage for Thrall and his guards to the Peak of Stonetalon.

However, before the first scout could even return, he heard the sounds of battle coming from atop the heights. The clash of steel and screams of both orc and human were unmistakable.

"What the hell is going on up there?" he demanded to know. It took nearly fifteen minutes for him to get an answer.

It came from a troll scout, the first one to return, who quickly reported to him. "Warchief, the Warsong be attackin' the humans against yo' direct orders."

"Grom…just what the hell are you doing?" he spoke out loud, looking at the ridge where the sound was coming from.

"Damn you. We have no choice now. Ready our men! We're storming those hills!" Thrall shouted out. It couldn't be helped now. There would be blood.


	29. Chapter 28: Against the Wall

Chapter 28: Against the Wall

**Chapter 28: Against the Wall**

Somewhere in South Eastern Lordaeron 

The flag rippled in the air. The cloth was a patchwork, shabby and almost silly looking. Most armies would be insulted by such a symbol; but not this one.

Embroidered on the waving banner was a furious dog. In its teeth was a skeleton, and upon its mane various symbols of the Alliance could be seen; Alterac hawk, Lordaeron magnolia, Stormwind lion, and Kul Tiras anchor.

Agni Jaendra ran forward, flail in hand, following the flag as it plunged into the battle. A ghoul jumped from behind one of the trees of the dark forest. Agni turned his hips, pivoting and bringing to flail to bear against the enemy. In an instant the spiked ball struck at the neck of the ghoul, sending a fountain of putrid blood and pus splattering on whatever was nearby. Angi turned back towards the flag and ran forward.

"Fifth company wheels right! Sixth, forward!" the shout came.

The flag turned, moving diagonally away now. Agni followed. The rush of men beside him made it impossible to do anything else but.

Suddenly the block of soldiers stopped moving. Up ahead there was action. Agni could hear it beneath his breathing, which sent clouds of vapor into the air. Slowly the lines ahead began to thin and more and more men were able to squeeze forward into the battle.

"Alright, this is it Agni. Luck and Light be with you. Be furious." Someone next to him said. He didn't turn his head to look. Instead, his eyes focused straight ahead.

"Be furious." He replied monotonously.

Their line moved up, passing the threshold of dead bodies that littered the ground. The clash of steel, flesh, and bone grew louder.

Agni pushed by some panting footmen, following the flag. Then the battle was fully in view. Below in a treeless valley the flaming army of demons was visible, advancing past the ruins of some old town. On their right flank were the undead, thousands of them in their ghostly lines.

"Kill 'em all!" a chant went up, followed by "The Dogs of War!"

Agni raised his shield and smashed into the nearest demon, an eight foot tall monstrosity with eyes of fire and a body with horns protruding from its shoulders. The demon wielded a blade of flickering light, bringing it down onto Agni's shield.

The metal lining of the shield melted away as the blade met it, but Agni's flail was already speeding through the air. Before the blade could reach his arm, the ball crashed into the demon's face, sending a stream of purple over Agni.

The ground suddenly shook and cracked open. From beneath a huge monster appeared, sending soldiers flying in all directions. Agni twisted his head to see what was going on, letting the rain wipe away the sour blood on his face.

A huge demon with tentacles slithering from its forehead emerged from the hole and aimed its two razor-like arms at the frontline of soldiers. In an instant hundreds of projectiles flew from the beasts hands, slaughtering anyone in front of it, including the flag bearer. The flag's stag itself was torn in two, leaving the flag hanging in midair for a fleeting moment.

Without so much as a thought, Agni tossed down his flail and rushed towards the banner. Picking it up amidst the pool of blood, he stood tall, waving their symbol. The others followed him now.

North of the Alteran Pass

"Yeah that looks good. Keep our lance in front and Casper behind them. Make sure we protect him. He's the only mage we have. Also, there," Valdar pointed out a narrow band of trees. "That's where we'll unleash our little secret. General Helmsworth, you take the bill companies and flank the undead there."

"Yes sir." And with that Helmsworth disappeared.

"Alright…now it just unfolds." Valdar put his leg on a log and watched the battle take place as his staff buzzed around him. He'd made the orders and come up with the tactics, now it would be the chance for the new commanders he'd appointed to show they're worth. The hardest part of commanding a force was having to wait and see if the plan worked, or if it failed and hundreds if not thousands of dead would be on your conscious for no good reason.

For the past month the Dogs had been making weapons and armor, training and getting their discipline back up as well as their numbers. So far they'd recruited four thousand, mostly the remnants of the old 6th Army but a few from other elements that were broken around Corrin's Crossing.

The pikes would advance up the center, covered by a nice thicket of arrows. They would engage the undead while Casper Valus kept the Burning Legion's demons busy with magical tricks. Footmen were waiting in reserve, and there was a band of about a hundred horsemen waiting for the signal to descend from the slopes to mop up any remaining enemy after the battle had been won…or cover the retreating army if they lost.

This was the Dogs of War's first true battle as a fully assembled force. The rest of their fights had been skirmishes or border raids. This would prove their mettle as a force. And it would test Valdar's vision.

"Impressive, isn't it?" he spoke to himself out loud. One of the officers turned and asked what was wrong. "How men have such courage to fight that…" The brilliance of the demonic army lit up the evening clouds with an eerie green, each of their kind more terrible than the last.

The demons were taking the bait and falling onto the army's flank. Casper Valus suddenly unsealed a massive artificial anti-Ley array that had been planted the night before. The ground beneath the demons burned with a bright blue flame, absorbing all things magical within the area; some other old trick of the Kirin Tor that Valus called 'a Reciprocal Hypergeometric Boundary Transfer', whatever the hell that meant.

And then the billmen came. They crashed into the undead who were now without their support, using their shorter staff weapons to cut away at the pikes the Scourge so loved to use. The bills had been a concoction between him and General Helmsworth, the reviving of an old weapon that had long been replaced in favor of the longer and more deadly halberds. Ironically enough, it was the first generation weapon that defeated a third. Suddenly without the pointed ends of their pikes, the skeletal phalanxes fell apart and swordsmen rushed into the breach, overrunning the undead.

A man on horseback came rushing up to him a few minutes later screaming of the victory. General Helmworth appeared not moments later with a leaking wound on his cheek.

"Brilliant! The maneuver worked perfectly. The 4th Division is cleaning up the Legion forces on the left. After this the Alteran Pass should be open." He spoke, jumping off his mount. "We'll need that pass open to escape from northern Lordaeron-"

"-If the situation calls for it."

"Are you telling me you intend to keep us in the north? That's madness! Just look at this place. It's a blasted ruin. There's almost nothing left of Lordaeron. We ought to gather up what we can and get south where we can regroup with what remains of the military and escort any refugees we find on our way."

Valdar turned and gazed at Helmworth. The world beyond the two shrunk a blur, and he felt the same feeling that had arisen during that night in the Penrose Forest. "Are you second guessing me, General?"

"Valdar, I'm just saying that staying here is suicide. There are more demons every arriving day and more undead with every man we lose. Lordaeron is lost."

"Am I right in assuming that you gave me command? You yourself said that you were not fit to make decisions for a whole army."

"This isn't the same! This is about life and death!"

"Life and death?" Valdar repeated "This is WAR! There is always death. That's what this is all about."

"No, I think you're letting your sense of revenge get in the way of your thinking." Rogir's arm swiped out in front of him.

An image of a man on horseback, a cape of cyan rippling into oblivion under a magnolia flag echoed in Valdar's mind. A burning house was there as well, filled with wounded people; soldiers, women, and children, unable to move. Two men, younger than he, cried out from the burning house. They both looked like a ghostly image of him, their roots in childhood forever severed.

"Revenge? Don't think so two dimensionally, General. This is something else. It contains revenge, and many other things. It's past such a petty notion however. I'm not sure if I understand it myself, but we're beyond that now."

"For Light's sake, don't do this Valdar. You'll regret it. Don't throw your life, and mine, as well as everyone holding onto this army's for nothing. If we stay up here, we'll be alone and in the cold."

"Everyman here carries the baggage of loss with him, but slowly, we're becoming our own family." Valdar looked out at the cheering formations. The flags were flying high, and the reserves were being called back to the camp where fires were already been struck up.

"Damn it boy, you're testing my patience!" Helmsworth moved closer, threateningly.

"Boy? I'm your commanding officer, _general. _I may be a Colonel Commander of the 6th Army, but I am the leader of the Dogs of War."

"No…wasn't this all about rebuilding the 6th Army? You aren't possibly-"

"That's damn right, general. You said it yourself. We're alone out here. I've come to realize that of late. There's no High Command, no King, there's nothing. The Dogs of War will stick together though. We'll guard this pass and maintain order in this area until we're relieved by reinforcements. Then and only then will I relinquish command of this army to the Alliance."

"You're insane! You're tearing up the fabric of military structure!"

"There is no military structure. That died when the civil war ripped this country apart and fed it to the mouth of the undead Scourge. Until it's proven to me that the Alliance still exists, we do things this way. Retreating to the south won't help as you think. No matter where we run they will always come after us! Why do you think they were moving towards the Alteran Pass? Don't you see? They're moving south..."

Rogir Helmsworth's face grew disgusted. He flipped the horse around and marched off back to camp. Valdar spotted Thorek Ghent making his way up the hill.

"What might be his problem, sir?" the old comrade asked.

"A difference in opinion is all. He wants to go south. I want to hold this pass."

"Ah, but isn't you in command?"

"He tried throwing some bullshit at me about tearing up military structure when that was precisely what we were doing." The newly christened leader shook his head.

"Well then, I's here to give tell you about our casualties." Valdar winced. "Not bad if I say so—we have a three dozen dead, and twice that wounded, but only one critically.

"If you need me I'll be in the field." Valdar started off, riding down towards the place where the lines clashed.

"Doin' what, might I ask?" Ghent called out.

"I'll be praying for the fallen." Valdar replied, trying desperately within himself to feel something but numbness for those who'd died at his commands while others congratulated him on their first major victory.

The Stonetalon Mountains, Warsong Party

"No more waiting!" Grom Hellscream lifted his head to the sky and let out the most powerful howl he could summon from his gullet. His warriors repeated the call, the fearsome signal of a Warsong attack. Inside him he felt his consciousness and voice of reason slowly begin to dissipate.

With meaningless shouts of hatred, the Warsong warriors emerged from behind the stony spires, crashing into and overwhelming the human barricades. Grom jumped into the air over a stack of boxes towards a distracted footman.

Hanging in the air for a moment, the footman turned into the image of an enemy from long ago. Was it one of the blue draenei, or another orc? Perhaps it was some human that fought him in the other war long ago. It didn't really matter. It was an enemy. It was there to kill. That was how things were. He would feast on the weakness of this pinkskin, and use that nourishment to kill another. The cycle didn't stop.

His axe flashed down in front of him right as the human noticed his presence, looking at him with wide eyes as a crimson rain sprouted from the armor links between shoulder and helm.

A cloud of dust puffed up as he landed. Behind a yell caught his attention and he twirled, raking the axe across another human's chest sending its breastplate skittering into the distance along with a splattering of blood.

Recovering himself for a moment, Hellscream noticed that not all of his warriors were attacking. A line of orcs remained at the edge of the human encampment. Pulling one of his senior orcs aside, he pointed to the inactive units. "What are they doing? Why aren't they aiding the attack?"

"They are the non-Warsong orcs we gathered after the landing, Warlord. They refuse to attack the humans."

"WORTHLESS!" Hellscream bellowed, pushing the orc out of his way.

Ignoring the carnage around him, he stomped towards the non-Warsong grunts, only his natural anger at such a slight just barely keeping his sanity intact over the wildfire bloodlust.

"You maggots! When I tell you to attack, you attack!" he screamed, throwing his left arm through the air in a gesture of fury.

"Warlord Hellscream, the Warchief ordered us not to engage the humans until he said to do so." One orc stepped forward. His long grey hair was split down the middle and longer on one side than the other, in the fashion of the old Thunderlord warlords. Around his thick stump of a neck was a necklace laden with the bones of animals collected during many hunts, the sign of great seniority and respect. This one might've been one of his clan's elders in the old days, before the last war.

"How far you've fallen, Grom Hellscream; you were proud once, superb and sharp in both mind and body. You've given into your weakness and accepted the Legion's curse after fighting it all these years? Pathetic." The elder looked at him pitifully. Grom's eyes narrowed. He hated that look.

"That's right! The word of the Warchief is above you, Hellscream." Another shouted from the group.

"Is that so?" Grom looked around at the faces of the disobedient orcs. The voice of reason asked him to think about Thrall, their friendship, and the people they fought for. It brought images flashing before his eyes, of their meeting on that grassy Alterac plain, of their battles together from Durnhold to the shipyards where they stole away on the Alliance vessels, to their reunion. But Grom pushed the thoughts away.

In an instant, he brought his axe to bearing, grasped it with both hands, and with lightning speed before any of the others could react, cleaved through the grey-haired orc's neck.

"The fight is above everything!" he howled, feeling the bloodlust cloud his mind. The elder's head rolled on the ground. "Now kill them all! If these humans didn't want a battle they'd be on the other side of the sea right now!"

_Grom Hellscream, you have truly fallen. Where is your honor? Your nobility? _The voice of reason tried to scream, but could only whisper.

Looking at each other, the orcs slowly dispersed into the battlefield. "That's right." Grom whispered, looking for another life to take. "The—blood—must—flow!" The voice of reason was completely drowned out in the euphoria of single minded killing.

The Stonetalon Mountains, Main Horde Assault Force

He'd hoped to avoid confrontation with the humans, and perhaps even negotiate passage through their lines, but now the fighting couldn't be dodged. The orders went through the orcish lines like fire.

_Prepare for combat!_

Orcish units were lined up and readying, helping themselves to the carts of weaponry and scavenged armors that went everywhere the Horde did. The entire area had become a staging zone for the coming battle. With the Warsong forces already prematurely engaged, Thrall had roughly ten thousand warriors with which to conduct a battle.

"The objective is not to utterly destroy the humans. We are to simply punch a hole in their lines and capture the mountain paths up to the peak," he gave out the orders to his.

Surrounding him were the commanders of the Horde at hand. Drek'thar, the old shaman, stood to his left. Kerash, a brash youngster who'd come through the Dark Portal as a mere orcling and risen to prominence as a child commander during the wars was cleaning his sharply filed nails impatiently. He had once held up an entire Alliance army in Dun Morogh with only his troop of a hundred and fifty whilst the Horde regrouped at Blackrock Spire. Orosh Bonesplint, hailing formerly from the Burning Blade, was one of the first of his clan to give up the demon ways and accept the Spirits offerings instead. Jin'khan, who'd taken up the reins of the remaining Bleeding Hollows' spot, was open. He had remained in Lordaeron to lead the Horde there in its second wave to Kalimdor. His stand in, Nag'roth, had been slain in fighting with the centaur. Other half dozen held their heads proudly while being briefed by the Warchief himself, including Vol'jin of the Darkspears and Ubuer of the Seared-bones ogre tribe.

"Kerash," Thrall pointed at a point on the hurriedly drawn map "You'll take the right wing and link up with the Warsong. Try to subdue them. It'll be your job to stabilize that front and cut off the human forces in the east from aiding their troops at the base camp."

"Yes Warchief. I will go immediately." Kerash rushed towards his troops with his youthful vigor.

"Our force will engage the front line forces all along these heights. To take the passes, we must force a breakthrough there," Thrall pointed to two jutting rocks at the top of the slopes ahead. "We'll apply pressure there using our shamans and then unleashing Ubuer's Seared-bones. When we've achieved a breakthrough, I'll take our wolfriders and secure the pathways. Now, be to it!"

The commanders broke and scattered. Thrall stood and waited, counting down as the minutes passed. Suddenly, all around he heard the orcish warhorns rang out, moaning into the wind. And then five thousand bloodthirsty orcs began to move forward, the second line and reserves already forming up.

The image was indeed awe-inspiring. There were few times when Thrall had actually commanded a conventional force this size into battle, usually using guerilla tactics back in Lordaeron due to the supremacy of the Alliance.

Then the skies lit up with the flaming ammunition of catapults, the magic of the Horde's casters, and arrows doused in burning oil. As the orcs climbed the narrowing slopes, the human forces replied with a thunderous volley of cannon and musket fire, presumably brought along by their dwarven allies. Puffs of yellow and white smoke rose from the hilltops as canister and grapeshot rounds ripped bloody swathes through the Horde's lines. They weren't enough to stop the tidal wave of green however. Not by a long shot.

More orcs from the second wave began their long march up as the first line neared the top of the hills. Screams from the wounded and dying filled the late afternoon air, along with the sound of thousands of warriors shuffling and huffing. The secondary force broke the straight march into an echelon formatting that both shielded them from the enfilading cannon fire from above but also sent them in the direction of the objective.

Just as the first lines seemed to reel back under the combined counter-attack, the reinforcements redoubled the offensive efforts, sending the orcs rushing out of Thrall's sight, over the hilltops. Behind them lay the casualties of the attack upon the field of battle.

"Warchief! Bonesplint has forced a hole in the enemy lines, though he can't hold it for long." A rider approached, giving the vital information.

"Very well." Thrall called for his weapon, and the Doomhammer was rushed up to him as well as his snow white frostwolf. Behind him gathered several hundred of his wolf riders, all prepared for the fight to come.

"Give it now, boy." He commanded to the young orc who'd brought him the Doomhammer. The orcling looked up at him and brought the horn to his lips, blowing on it with all his might. With that the wolf riders moved out, moving at full speed up the slopes in the dusty trail of the first two waves.

As the force reached the crest of the hill, the battle again unfolded before their eyes. The orcs and ogre forces had overrun the Alliance front lines, including many of their cannon. Bodies from both sides were mingled together, strewn from side to side amongst the shadow of the mountain.

The Horde had been slowed to a grinding halt again, except where the human lines had been split in two some hundred yards from the twin rock spires which had been the objective. Leading his wolf riders in a winding snake-like formatting through hole, Thrall took them past several guard towers and buildings which had been erected not too long ago. They trampled over the tents that stood in their way, closing in quickly on the mountain path which lay ahead.

A troop of footmen and dwarven riflemen quickly lined up before the path in an attempt to stop the advance. Thrall noticed behind them a high elven mage and focused in on him as the wolf riders fanned out and prepared to take the defense head on. The dwarven riflemen fired, sending their musket balls ripping through armor and flesh. Thrall nearly lost his concentration as he felt a tug and punch on his shoulder. Looking, he saw that he'd been grazed by one of the bullets, blood seeping out from beneath his pitch armor. Shrugging off the shock, he focused again on the mage who sent a bolt of lighting into his warriors, sending five of them flying through the air. The riflemen retreated behind the footmen shouting for a reload.

Invoking fire and wind, Thrall pulled the flame from torch and campfires nearby, guiding them with gusts around the wolf riders and into the formation. The flame rushed with frightening speed through the Alliance line and impacted with the mage, incinerating him in seconds, just before the riders impacted with the shield wall.

With momentum and weight of numbers on their side, the riders broke through and overran the Alliance force, making it clear through to the other side. A group of deflated goblin air balloons caught Thrall's eye as the riders approached the mountain pass. Beside them lay several cages filled with the tiny goblins that'd probably been used to operate the balloons. There was no time now, but perhaps later he could make it back to free them.

Just then, as his warriors were about to reach the bottom of the narrow ramping rock that led to the peak, more shot and arrow burst out. Hundreds of dwarves and humans appeared from caves that lined the further slope leading up to the peak.

"KHELUM"! Thrall cursed in his native language. It had been a trap. Dozens of his warriors fell as the humans and their lackeys emerged. A phalanx of swords and shields emerged as well, and pre-made barricades were quickly thrown up blocking the pass. One of the booby traps even went so far as to cause a landslide that cascaded down the hill and crushed several more riders.

Atop the ridges far overhead, Thrall saw humans tossing rocks or loosing their bows. There was probably another base up there. The humans had beaten them to the peak…

"Back! Back!" Thrall commanded. Regretfully, the remaining riders moved out of range of the Alliance troops. Cries of victory went up in the background, though Thrall felt none of their elation. The humans had held the pass in the end, even if they had cut the base camp down here in two. Anger began to well in him. If Hellscream hadn't attacked, he might've been able to negotiate a way up the mountain or at least hold the element of surprise for a bit longer.

"Warchief! Half the human army is retreating and Kerash has linked up with Warlord Hellscream, surrounding the other half. Our victory is flawless!" one orc shouted out, high with the win.

"No…" Thrall looked toward the mountain pass where near dozens of his best riders lay dead, then towards the slopes were hundreds more lay. "We failed to secure our way to the Oracle. Damn it all…bring me Hellscream. He _will_ be punished for this."

Somewhere in Silverpine Forest

Cyrus had moved from a god forsaken pit to a light forsaken cell. He'd been kicked into the tiny barred room just after he'd unleashed the magic of the Legion as his captors wished.

Every day they'd bring him a bowl of slop and some kind of salty drink, which he half expected to be laced with urine. Beaten and exhausted, he sat in the cell not knowing day from night, trying to regain energy or tap into some kind of Ley-line that might allow him to wield magic to escape. After a while, he made the astonishing discovery that there were a slew of lines connected to the place they were in. There might've been dozens. The only problem was that they were all tainted with the same fel energy that he'd been forced to use.

After his will to escape began to fade, he started to reflect on his failure to keep his mental fortitude up and prevent himself from using the fel magic. Every moment of his existence seemed haunted by the mere fact that he'd failed in the tenets of every teaching he'd ever been taught. Even though he told himself that if not for that one slip he might've been dead, he couldn't bring himself to face the fact that he'd willingly accepted such an evil force into his body.

The endless night began to wear an unbearable torment on him. Cyrus had tried talking to the guards who brought him food, though in the thick darkness they'd neither talked nor even seemed to notice his existence, simply throwing the rations through the slippery, wet bars of the cell.

Every once in a while he found himself talking to the walls, trying desperately to find some kind of contact. He spoke of his numerous failures during the past few months, starting with letting Taris down to not being able to help his people, to the recent bitter personal disappointment.

Then one day, as he began to accept the fact that he'd been utterly forgotten and abandoned in the cell, a bright light and thunderous noise of a great metal door opening flooded his world. He backed up to the far end of his cell, squinting at the blinding rays of torchlight.

"So, have you retained your sanity? I've known many a elf, or even more like, men, who have gone insane from the utter deprivation of sense in this place." a voice asked. It was the same one that had taunted him in the pit.

"How long has it been?" Cyrus replied, his voice horse and dry. Sudden delight flushed into him as he heard the torchbearer.

"Some weeks." The sound of clanking keys echoed in the hallways.

"Where am I?"

"You're in the lowest level of our temple, the dungeons." The cell gate swung open and the torchbearer stepped into the cramped cell. "Now, Cyrus Faim'las, I'd like you to come with me. I'm going to go show your fate."

"How do you know me? Why did you bring me here?" Cyrus pushed himself to his legs. They felt wobbly and weak, as if he hadn't stood on them in an eternity.

"We know a great many things about you. As for why you are here, it is simply that you were the perfect candidate for what we need. In a manner of speaking, the laws of causality picked you, not us." The torchbearer began to walk away. Cyrus followed, taking careful steps as his eyes were still not used to the light.

The two stepped around a corner and walked down what must've been a half mile of corridor before reaching a winding stair. They climbed, and though Cyrus felt a fire burning in the muscles of his legs and lungs, he didn't stop for fear of being left behind.

_Your imprisonment has made you pathetic, _his thoughts told him. Even though it made perfect sense, it still didn't override the base fear of being left for dead again.

As the two arrived at the top of the stairwell, the torchbearer stopped and handed Cyrus the flaming wood. The thought of manipulating the fire with magic crossed Cyrus' mind, but doing so would require materials that he could only summon using the tainted Ley-lines.

Suddenly pushing open the doors, magenta light erupted into sight blurring Cyrus' vision again. He raised his arms to cover his eyes as they adjusted to the brightness, slowly pulling them down. When he fully did so, only then did the overwhelming feeling of impossibility struck him. Cyrus let out a gasp.

The two stood at the base of a massive mausoleum easily a kilometer across in a rounded shape. Marble pillars rose to the ceiling far above which pulsed with living purple flame.

Runic symbols and scrollwork were etched into the walls; millions of letters on every square inch of the unbelievably large ossuary. Robed figures invoked physical magic through mighty pipelines that ran around the room, feeding into the flame from above. Cyrus realized that it must be through those that the Ley-lines were being directed to. In the center of the cavernous area a huge beam of white energy rose form the ground, sparks and electricity flickering about it.

"And now, Cyrus Faim'las, you will see the underground temple of our fraternity. Behold the place from which we have influenced the course of history." The two stepped slowly into the light.

( Hey guys, thanks for all the reviews so far. I'm hoping to continue to get them from all of you. And to those who wanted to use some of my characters for some role-playing D&D stuff, I'm not too familiar with the game so if you could PM or send me a review with the basic stats and stuff that you want me to send. I can have them at the end of the next chapter which shouldn't be too far away as I've already completed almost half of it. Until then, thanks again everyone.

-Omegatrooper )


	30. Chapter 29: Assemblage

**Chapter 29: Assemblage**

Stonetalon Mountains, Kalimdor

The smoking battlefield had calmed somewhat. The Horde tactic had successfully split the human camp up. One group was surrounded on all sides and expected to give in within a few days. Another was severed from its allies by the orc salient on the slopes, and the third was yet another force on the heights of the tallest mountain of Stonetalon. The very one they needed to get to.

It must be the Oracle. But why do they need it, and how did they find out about it? Thrall had thought it through over and over in his mind. The only answer he could come to was that the humans and their Proudmoore girl had been warned by the same Prophet who'd come to him that stormy night. But why would the Prophet show the orcs their new homeland, their new destiny, and send the humans, their greatest enemy, across the sea as well? Unless it was a trick…

With that foreboding thought floating in the back of his mind, Thrall felt a little nauseous. But it wasn't the time or place to think about such things. They were in the middle of a battle, and it had to be sorted out afterwards.

What did come first though was this fiasco with the Warsong. He couldn't afford to have soldiers who didn't obey his commands in the fight. He'd finally come up with a mission for Grom after a long night of pondering. The Warsong Clan would march north and set up a base camp along the edges of the great forest there and supply the Horde with much needed wood for its war and colonization efforts, as there had been barely any of the resource on their long march.

Splitting forces in the middle of a fight wasn't the best idea, but there wasn't much of a choice. With more Horde forces pouring into the Stonetalons every hour they could bear to absorb the losses, at least for a while.

"Warchief, my orcs are burnt out. Our war parties are down to half strength or less from exhaustion and losses. Two entire Bahad's are useless. We must stop for now." Kerash, the embodiment of the New Horde's tactics sighed. The older commanders chafed. They would have liked to continue until all their forces were bloodied. Thrall looked down at the map and silently agreed. He wouldn't let this Horde beat itself senseless just to attain a meaningless victory like had been done in the past.

"We'll rest for the night and replenish our numbers. Bring up reinforcements and reorganize. Before the sunrise, you will all be ready to continue the assault on the mountain. Am I understood?"

"Yes Warchief." The commanders agreed and were dismissed. All save Hellscream, who stood looking at Thrall with eyes of guilt. He hadn't wanted to stop the fighting. Only Thrall's arrival on the gruesome scene of the Warsong's fight had managed to bring Hellscream to his senses.

The memory played back in his mind: _The slain humans had all been decapitated, a pile of heads sitting behind the warriors as trophies. Nothing had been able to stop the Warsong advance, but it was clear they'd paid a high price for their victory. _

"_Grom, have you lost what's left of your mind!? I gave you a direct order to leave the humans alone. What the hell is wrong with you?" _

_Grom glanced at him with those fearsome red eyes. "Don't lecture me pup!" Thrall was taken aback. Grom had never yelled at him before. "The wretches deserved death! Mmmm. Don't you feel it Thrall? It's like the old day; like the demons are near." And that was what had struck a deep fear into Thrall's heart. All this time and Grom had never given up on the demons. He'd never tried with all his heart to remove the blood lust, even though he knew how evil it was. Even if he had said so in the past, and meant it then, there was always some dark corner in him that wished to feast on the demon's power again. _

"I don't know what's come over you and your men, but this…bloodlust is a liability I can't afford." Thrall said, back in the present.

"Mmh. I'm sorry Thrall. Your right. I _can _handle it." There it was. Grom had admitted his fault. But would that push him away? Would it make him less of a commander here and now on the battlefield? Now that he would try to hold back the rage which made him such a wonderful offensive commander?

"I can't take that chance, Grom. Take your clan to the northern forest and build us a settlement. I'll come and find you after we've reached the Oracle." Thrall tried not to make the statement sound too harsh, but he knew his tone had been so. Grom winced visibly. He knew the rift he'd created between the two, who'd once been close as blood brothers.

"Yes, Warchief. I will take my clan to the forest." He said, resigning himself to the punishment. He then stood up straight, thumped his chest in salute, and left. Before Grom had fully turned however, he saw a hint of disgust in his eyes. Thrall looked at him sadly, then back at the mountain peak and felt the anger rise again.

Somewhere in Lordaeron

Mannaroth turned to face the assembled Lords of the invasion force; before him stood the single most powerful beings in Azeroth. He, Mannaroth, was King of the Pit Lords, Kabbal of the Almadel Drudges stood to the far right, unusually quiet in the midst of such a meeting.

In the center was Lord Archimonde, overlord of the invasion, Kabbal of the Goteia Drudges, Second in-Tier of the Legion, standing in all his unholy glory. Darkness seemed to radiate off of him.

To his direct right was Haures, Fourth (and long thought overdue for Third) in-Tier of the Legion, Kabbal of the Notoria Druges. On Archimonde's left stood the demonic ethereal Styxx, and farther down

Tichondrious and his Nathrazim stood in the back, knowing their place under these overlords. There also were the lesser eredar and demon lords.

"**It has been ten thousand years since last the Legion set foot on Azeroth." **Archimonde began. "**This world has felt our first footsteps, and now we set to our goal. Those who remain shall be under the direction of Haures, Kabbal of Notoria. The time to cleanse Azeroth of its imperfection has come nigh, and Sargares' will shall be done.**"

"**Nothing may stand opposite of the Legion. Even the Titans have fled us, never to return. Thus it begins, the destruction of creation.**"

And so with a single swipe of Archimonde's hand, a hundred thousand demons were instantly teleported across the Great Sea, arriving in Kalimdor amidst flames of green a hundred feet tall.

The Alteran Pass

A crowd cheered. They were bedraggled, with torn and muddy clothing. Their hair was mussed and faces unkempt. Down the main road of the town, the soldiers marched; past heaps of ashes that had been the dead, now cremated to prevent infection of any others from the Plague. Ironically enough, it had been Prince Arthas' order, and now he needed all the undead he could get.

They'd smashed another force of undead not a full day ago, and now thousands of people who'd been hiding in the mountains flushed out to greet their saviors. While his soldiers reveled in drink taken from abandoned towns and cavorted with the grateful women, Valdar sat atop his barded horse staring into the distance.

Two entire armies crushed in the span of a week. One even had the Legions support. Valdar supposed he ought to be happy, but inside he felt a brewing depression and confusion. He'd only won because of the element of surprise on a strategic level both times. The enemy hadn't expected a strong force to pop back up where there was none before. But the next time they would be ready. Then they would probably send something far more dangerous to stomp out the growing resistance before it flickered into a dangerous fire. By now his strength and tactics had been gauged properly. It would be much tougher, and many more would die, whether it was to be a victory or defeat.

Pulling the reins, Valdar shied away from the end of the column where his men were breaking up to enjoy themselves. He moved towards a dark tree near the edge of town to think more clearly.

He'd made it the priority of the Dogs of War to guard the Alteran Pass and prevent the undead from moving further south. With the rest of the Alliance armies on the run or trapped up north, they would be out here utterly alone. No support, no aid, no re-supply. That demanded strong measures.

Sighing, he ran through the logistics and numbers through his head. They had eight thousand able bodied soldiers, minus the hundred who'd perished the past two fights, minus the hundred and fifty wounded. No missing. There were two hundred and sixty four horses in the army, most being used to cart equipment or for the officers, their staff, and runners. There were approximately five thousand swords, six hundred bills, several dozen lances (useless without cavalry), a thousand pikes, bows, and the arrows to compliment. All the men were veterans. They'd fought for either the Alliance or in one of the two battles of late. That would help for his upcoming plans.

He'd begun to spread a wide syndicate of spies and information relays across the land, and the picture had finally solidified. The Scourge was moving strangely. Great hosts had been gathered, but only half were moving south towards the only remaining targets on the continent; southern Lordaeron, Gilneas, and Stromgarde. The ones who remained behind were being constantly reinforced by demons, but simply sat tight as if awaiting some signal.

The demons that Casper Valus named the 'Burning Legion', had arrived in Azeroth to wipe clean the flame of life from the world. They weren't content to merely conquer, enslave, or ravage. They wanted to destroy everything. And what was worse, it seemed that the undead Scourge was subservient to them. The only thing Valdar could think of when he'd heard this was 'how long has this invasion been planned?'

The revelation hit him then that everything that had happened of late had been of the demons designs. The orcs with their warlock magic's and demonic summons must've been under the control of them. He'd heard whispered and rumors of the mighty Horde of the Second War having been controlled by something greater than Doomhammer; that a single orc could never hold together such a massive force.

But the orcs had failed. So these demons had tried again, this time infiltrating all echelons of human society, planting the Plague across the lands, and raising the undead. And then after Dalaran had fallen, the Legion had arrived. There must've been something there that had given the Scourge enough power to open the portals to whatever hell the Burning Legion came from. If that was so, then to perhaps to close the weakened veil around the world, they would have to steal back whatever power the Scourge had usurped from the Violet Citadel, or return to the ruins of Dalaran in hopes of finding an equally important weapon. But to leave the Alteran Pass would be to give free access to southern Lordaeron. What to do? He stroked the stubble on his chin.

"Valdar, why you be up here alone? You should be with the men, enjoying yourself. Hard work earns a rest laddy." The voice of Thorek Ghent swam through the air. He wore a new suit that looked something halfway ridiculous. It was the old garb of some dead officer, shiny with gold braids but the surcoat was muddied and the under-vest torn and frilled. He'd chosen it when Valdar had promoted him to be a commander of the Missives, his information organization. He knew he'd have to surround himself with those he trusted before he could make any big moves on his own.

"There's no time to rest." He replied.

"I think the men have earned it, Valdar. They've gone through hell this past year." Another voice spoke up. Rogir Helmsworth appeared from behind some brush, pushing his horse forward. The man hadn't spoken to him since their argument after the last fight.

"Everyone has. And everyone will continue to go through hell. If they want it to stop, then they're going to have to fight for it to end. Sitting back relaxing and growing fat won't end this war."

"You know that's not what I meant, Valdar." Rogir's eyebrows were furrowed, his face a mask of anger.

"You see all those men out there in that refugee crowd?" Valdar pointed to the campfires.

"Yes, what of them?" Rogir replied.

"I want them in the army; every single one of them. All who have come to their manhood will serve in this army. You will ask if any of the women would like to serve as well. They will be in separate camps from the men. The rest we'll send on their way to the refugee camps around Castle Perres."

"That's ridiculous Valdar! Women in the army?!" Rogir was incredulous.

"Make sure it's done; and quickly. On the morrow at the fourth hour we march. My eyes tell me there's a host of skeletons coming down the King's Road looking for blood. We'll oblige."

Valdar rode away, but not before hearing a fuming Helmsworth spit an insult at his back.

"Calm, General. We're under a lot of pressure. Valdar is bearing the brunt of it. The boyo' is doing what he knows is best. Not thinks, not hopes: knows. And I trust him. You should too." Thorek Ghent gave Rogir a look in the eye before leaving him as well.

Darrowshire

Joseph Redpath looked out at the moon. The stars were somewhat blotted out by its brilliance. It was a cold, crisp night for spring, and the last snows of the year had fallen.

He closed his eyes and let the silver light fill his eye lids. Two days ago, an attack had come. Nobody had been killed, but it was the first attack in weeks. He'd hoped that the Scourge had simply forgotten about them. It wasn't as he wished. They had probably just been gathering forces, preparing for what would undoubtedly be the final fight for this town.

Behind, he heard his wife approach. "Come back to bed, Joseph. It's too cold out here."

"Myyra…" he muttered her name, savoring it. There was warmth in that name.

"Come on darling." She tried to take his arm and lead him, but he resisted.

"No, I want to stay here and watch the heavens for a while." He responded.

"Very well. What are you trying to see? The stars? How about the constellation Retus, or Trollbane? Remember how we would trace out the stars when we were younger, Joseph?" his wife smiled, nuzzling her head in the crook of his neck.

"I'm not looking at the stars. The moon's too bright for all of them right now. Its funny how that is, isn't it? No matter what we have, it's not a human's destiny to be happy. There is always something else that we wish for. On top of that, we can never really understand each other because of just that. It's just our nature. We seek, but never enjoy."

"What are you talking about, Joseph? Is something wrong?" his wife pulled away, looking into his face with her deep blue eyes glinting with moonlight.

"I don't really know what's right and wrong any more. The line between everything that I once thought was set is all so blurry now. All I really know that I want is you and the children, Myyra." Joseph touched her face.

"Is something going to happen, Joseph?"

"You are my wife. I'll be honest with you: Yes, I think something is going to happen soon."

Her face surprisingly broke into a smile. "Thank you, Joseph. I know that you want to protect this town, and protect your family. I know you want to bear the burden of so much on your shoulders to save the people you love from suffering, but I thank you for letting me share that burden with you."

"I love you, Myyra. I always have, since I first saw you to this very moment and until I die." He said, speaking with his heart.

"Come back to bed." She pulled him out of the cold night.

The following morning, he called his war council with Mayor Rykov and his captains. A huge force of undead had been spotted moving towards them, thousands strong. Ten runners were sent out, asking for aid. With luck, Davil and his paladins were still in the area. If they were especially lucky, perhaps some backup from Tyr's Hand could be sent.

If not, they had only themselves to rely on; the hundred and sixty defenders of Darrowshire versus the might of the undead Scourge. Joseph had spent the past months preparing for this, ever since he'd been appointed the commander of militia. It was the fight they'd all been preparing for. This would be the final showdown between however was commanding the attacks of Darrowshire and its defenders.

"This is good. I'm tired of waiting. Come and try to get us, you black bastard. You'll find that Darrowshire won't go easily into the night." Joseph uttered at the end of the war council.

And with that, everyone was dismissed to go about their duty, for perhaps the final time.

Borders of Ashenvale, two days later

Dark outlines shifted amongst the branches, slowly surrounding the outlander camp. Strangely curved blue-wooded bows were readied, but not notched. For now they were watching and learning.

"You were right, sisters. These greenskinned brutes have no respect or love for living things." The shadows spoke to one another.

"It pains me to see the land so raped by these monsters. Let us slay the outlanders now."

"No, wait a while. We will use shadow, speed, and fear to our advantage."

"Very well."

The Sentinels of Ashenvale waited and watched, learning about their enemies, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

Warsong Lumber Camp

"Damn Thrall for sending us away. He chooses to use his greatest warriors for manual labor? He'll be lost without me." Grom told himself over and over. The very idea of being sent from the battle to harvest WOOD of all things sickened him. Not even a hunt for food. But wood. Disgusting.

Sweaty peons were running back and forth, collecting piles of wood that were being thrown into carts. If it was wood Thrall wanted, this was certainly a place that was rich in it. And Grom would show him that even in such a menial task, the Warsong were the best. Thus he'd also assigned every available orc to help out in the task, though the warriors preferred to stay away from those below their class.

The land had changed quickly from an arid savannah to dense forest, with tall, dark trees looming above. The forest abyss was covered with leaves and thick scrabble grass, green off of the rotting nutrients of fallen things and rain. Light shot through the canopy every once in a while in pillars and sheets as the thick air and morning mists rose.

Dark panthers and brightly colored birds jumped and flew amongst the branches, and twice the Warsong had had to slay a beast or two that had attacked them. Strange floating blobs of light floated by sometimes, not bearing any attention to the orcs.

"If Drek'thar were here, he'd surely say the spirits are strong in this place." He heard an orc say once as they watched the light flitter on by.

The flora and fauna of the forest was amazing, eerie, and fantastic. Before fully entering the forest, they'd passed a sprawling ruin; ancient stone, cracked but beautiful. Great ribbed columns reached up to a reversed roof amphitheater that had begun to crash to the ground. Some of the ruins were extremely old by the look of it.

But there was something about the forest. Grom just couldn't put his finger on it. It disturbed him. To be honest, Grom Hellscream would have preferred to stay in the Barrens, where the land was rugged like back home.

"Chieftain, there's something strange about these woods. It's too quiet—like we're being watched." A grunt said to him as their lumber camp had been set up.

"Are you all afraid of spirits now?" Hellscream chuckled wryly. "There is nothing here but ancient trees and shadow." Just then, in the woods around them strange voices began to echo.

"_Ana dun e falor e." _

"_Esh de rodne fanas. Ehh hah." _

"You hear that!? This place is haunted! I fear no living enemy, but my axe cannot cleave fleshless spirits!" the grunt said again, voice desperate. The orcs in the camp stopped their work and looked around. A foreboding silence followed.

"Still your tongue and get to work. The Warchief's new settlement will require a great deal of lumber. This section of the forest must be cleared." Grom shouted out, trying to get his workers back to their jobs. As a tree fell, three more of the strange light blobs flew from its trunk. The orcs backed away instinctively.

"Those dancing lights are strange. Perhaps they are the dread spirits you've all been so afraid of." Grom's face cracked into laughter, though his mirth was cut short.

From the shadow of the trees suddenly emerged a hail of black arrows and panthers. Atop each panther rode a strangely garbed humanoid with weapons in hand Grom had never seen before.

The arrows and panther riders felled a dozen of his peons before the orcs could react. Suddenly he saw his entire camp go into panic. Orcs began to either run away or run for their weapons, turning their backs to the immediate threat.

"Fools! To them!" Grom suddenly picked up his twin axes and bolted towards the attackers, others following in his wake. The panther riders suddenly split up, instantly molding to the quick orc counter attack.

"What!?" Grom gasped at the faster than normal reaction. The panther riders fluidly moved around the orcs to their flanks whilst more of the black arrowheads peppered their lines. Grom himself was grazed as he turned to try and find out what was going on.

Suddenly the riders attacked, smashing into the orcs. Grom turned, flailing rapidly at a panther rider as it passed him using some kind of scythe blade to parry his blows. Twisting, the rider threw a massive shuriken the size of Grom's head. The object narrowly missed him, instead slicing an orc's head off who'd been standing next to him.

"What the hell are they?!"

Another rider approached Grom, but this time he threw his legs out behind him and fell to the ground, axes pointed straight up at the bestial mount's underbelly. Black blood sprayed all over his face and entrails spurted out of the panther's belly as it crashed to the ground sending its rider flying forward.

Grom jumped to his feet as the rider slowly got up, throwing its tattered cloak aside. Grom was taken aback by what he saw under the cloak. It was a woman. A dark purple skinned woman with elf ears.

Grom dropped the thought there and ran towards the woman soldier. "Die bitch!"

The elf eared being took a stance more gracefully and smoothly than Grom knew he ever could, and suddenly jumped five feet in the air, landing directly behind him. Grom whirled around, smashing at her curved blade with his axe, pummeling again and again. Even going as fast as he could, and hitting as hard as he could, the woman was too fast. She dodged, jumped, and evaded him, eventually escaping to the woods.

By then the attack had ended. Not a single one of the enemy had been killed or captured. Perhaps a few were wounded, but none of their bodies lay on the field except for the panther Grom had slain. He then realized how close the battle had been. If he hadn't charged right when they attacked, the entire clan might've been routed.

"What in the hell was that?" he spat, keeling over to catch his breath.

"Women! They were women!" a grunt drawled at the realization. "And they ravaged us so badly!"

"Yes. They almost look like elves. Hmm. But they are far too tall, and far too savage." Grom replied, staring at the dark woods, and then glancing over at the dozens of dead orcs.

Three more times in the next hour the camp was attacked. With intensity in battle that matched the orcs, speed that exceeded humans, and savagery that Grom had only seen in his blood lusted warriors, it was clear that he was facing a very real and very dangerous enemy. Grom had heard several of the orcs comment on the ferocity of the warrior women, and even that they were the perfect warriors. He wasn't disinclined to agree.

As the orcs attempted to penetrate further and further into the forest, the more and more of these dark skinned elf women they encountered. Grom had to remind his warriors on more than one occasion that they were here to cut lumber, not to chase new enemies, though he had to admit to himself that the thought of open battle with these perfect warriors would be a glorious one indeed.

Another time the women attacked on the backs of winged beasts, feathered and horned. They'd shot the same black tipped poison arrows again and again before some had been netted by the wolf riders and brought down to the ground.

As the days wore on and the lumber in their stores increased, so too did the number of attacks. His orcs couldn't even catch a night's rest without being assaulted almost hourly. Though luckily, the increasing battle had begun to show the orcs the weaknesses of this new enemy. Though agile and surprising, their numbers weren't great, nor was their strength.

Four days passing since the first attack and the Warsong coffers were overflowing with wood. The battle though, had only begun.

Ashenvale Forest

He'd felt the pain of the forest for these many days now. The outlanders, alien to this land and world, had come with evil intentions to harm nature. They wished to take the gifts of the land and use them for their own selfish reasons, and for whatever they might've been, it paled in comparison to what he felt deep within each and every one of them.

In each orc, the reek of demonic blood emanated. The putrid smell had made him wrinkle his nose at first scent, reminding him of the old days when the war against the Burning Legion had so devastated the world. It only served to worry him more, as he could sense that far off in another land long since separated from Kalimdor by the ending of that terrible war, the Legion's taint had already begun to spread.

"So these must be your pets, eh, Mannaroth?" Cenarius said to himself. He could tell by the unique stench that came from these orcs. They'd been infected with the blood of Mannaroth. The same blood he had spilled on these very plains ten thousand years ago.

"So be it. If the Legion will send its minions, then I will crush whatever filth you throw here."

Emerging from the ancient glades of Ashenvale, Cenarius, Demi-god, was held in rapture by the night elves, whom hadn't seen the glorious being in many a millennia.

"These demon-driven beasts have invaded our land and disturbed my slumber with the earth. There must be war now. We will teach the Legion once more what it is to tangle with us." He spoke, hooves clacking through the night elf camps. Sentinels gathered around him, and night elves from across Ashenvale were beckoned by the greatness of Cenarius' being.

When two days had passed, the numbers of the Sentinels had swelled to over five times their previous size in southern Ashenvale. Where passed Cenarius, the Ancients arose; great living trees with the power of many dozens. Where passed Cenarius, the land itself came to life, growing and preparing for battle.

And then he came to a cliff where he could see the base of operations for the outlanders. Taking in a deep breath, he shouted. "**Who dares defile this ancient land? Who dares the wrath of Cenarius and the night elves?**"

Behind him the night elves cheered. Moonlight and starlight shone down on him with such intensity that the orcs in the camp were nearly blinded as they peered upon the ten foot tall half-stag half-night elf demi-god.

Anger filled Cenarius. **"Let battle be joined!**" he shouted out, with enough power to shake the earth and collapse the orcish buildings.

Organization of the New Horde's Military

The Horde: In itself the Horde is a vast body encompassing most orcs. Almost every greenskin belongs to the organization, and though its numbers are no where near what they once were at the beginning of the Second War, they are made up for by the use of new styled tactics and strategy as well as the acceptance of both shamanism and newer technology.

Clan / Khus: Under Warchief Thrall's reorganization of the Horde, a new formation of orc warriors has come into play. The Khus', bodies of up to ten thousand orcs (and their allies) were set to replace the largely destroyed clan system after the Second War. Each Khus contains orcs from several different clans, sometimes entire clans themselves. The Khus' leaders, Warlords, as with the old clans, organize their force according to a standard, allowing for more specialized, smaller, forces to be split up within themselves. Though the Khus' seem to be slowly replacing the ancient clans of Draenor, they have not fully supplanted them nor taken the cultural traditions of each one into account. The Khus' are ethnically diverse and diffused, allowing the free trade and flow of information and culture to all orcs. There are also the few last organized clans, such as the Bleeding Hollow and Warsong that remain autonomous to the Khus'. These continue the old ways by themselves, often singling themselves out in the camps and battles.

Bahad: A smaller body within the Clans and Khus which allow for more precise and direct attacks and movements. These usually consist of three to five thousand warriors.

Nojar: Even smaller and more specialized units within the Nojars. These usually are organized according to special skills or assignments, with their numbers depending on their necessity. For example, wolf riders are often placed into Bahads of one thousand, and further split up into more minute forces for more fluid movement across the battlefield.

Shikash: Some of the smallest units of the Horde are the Shikash's. Usually with numbers in the hundreds and not more than fifteen hundred, Shikash's are used as the lowest level of tactical use on the battlefield. Shikash's were a completely new form of division amongst the Horde, implemented by Warchief Thrall in an attempt to match the human dominance of tactics on the battlefield; something which had lead to many pyrrhic victories and bloody defeats in the past. The Shikash's can be compared to the use of regiments in the Alliance army.

Tchis: Break-off divisions and detachments assigned to Khus' and clans in times of battle. These consist mostly of highly specialized forces or client-state allies of the Horde, such as the Darkspear trolls, whom are often used for their prowess in scouting, assassination, and hunting.

( --Authors Note: Hey all, sorry for another late chapter but I had about eleven hours of work a day this week plus two more hours of summer school so that didn't leave too much time for writing.

Anyway, for Bien and his friends, I've put a small list of some of the major characters in the story using basic WoW stats in my Fanfiction Bio. I'll put down the levels and any special equipment that the character is using there. If you want additional information, you can PM me and ask. If it's simply not enough, I can probably create an appendix for the major (and minor if you want) characters and continue to update it every once in a while as the story progresses. I'll be pretty busy again till next week, so if you need any more stuff I can probably get it done around then.

Anyway, till next time guys. Thanks for reading!

Omegatrooper --)


	31. Chapter 30: At the end of all things

**Chapter 30: At the end of all things…**

East Lordaeron, Eleven Months into the War

The numbers were up. Nine thousand and a half souls, ready to fight. More from scattered pockets of resistance found by the Missives, the information organization Valdar had set up, poured in every day. They recruited openly, taking any hand that was willing to wield a blade. These days, a lot of people had nothing to lose and joined up for the common dream of making the world a better place for the next generation. If there would be one.

Valdar scanned the field. The Alteran Pass was a field of operations some hundred square miles in size, and stringing nine thousand soldiers over that area wasn't going to work. Thrice now the undead had come in force, and thrice they'd been foiled. The Burning Legion had attempted as well, but half-heartedly. Underestimating the Dogs of War was what got them beaten.

But no longer were they going to be taken as an idle threat confined to the region. Using their original camps on the edges of the Penrose Forest as a base of operations, with Castle Perres further back as a secondary fallback point, the Dogs would advance into the heart of Scourge territory. The objective: liberate south eastern Lordaeron by crushing the Scourge focal point at Corrin's Crossing. It would be a long stretch, but if things held together, they could make it.

Corrin's had long since become the center of undead activity for the entire eastern theatre of the war. A great many ziggurats had been constructed to convey and strengthen necromantic bonds between summoners and their minions. With the ziggurats gone, most of the Scourge in that realm would destabilize, leaving them little more than twittering piles of flesh.

Leaving one thousand men to guard the narrowest point in the Alteran Pass, Valdar embarked on what would be the army's first offensive. He'd toyed with the idea for a while, but only at the insistence of the mage Casper Valus had he gone along with it. As the saying went; the best defense was a good offense: especially one that wouldn't be expected. Rogir Helmsworth was furious. After all, he'd been the leader of the group within the army's commanders who wanted to withdraw and regroup in northern Alterac.

The group that remained behind would draw in the Scourge army that was closing in, which outnumbered them easily by ten to one. They would split in half, using one force to entice the undead to attack whilst the others prepared for the defense. Meanwhile, the eight thousand of the attacking force would travel through the dark forest backwoods led by several civilian farmers and hunters who knew the secret shortcuts through the impenetrable walls of trees that dominated the land. They would, if successful, emerge somewhere south of Corrin's Crossing with enough space between them and the city to prepare for their assault. Secrecy was of the utmost importance.

Approaching Corrin's, the Missives informed them of a massive force of undead staging for an assault, possibly on Tyr's Hand to finally end the siege. Disrupting the Scourge operations in the area would undoubtedly aid the Alliance.

"So we come to it. Our greatest battle." Thorek Ghent said, riding next to him.

"Or our monumental loss." Valdar replied sarcastically. Before them were arrayed the eight thousand soldiers of attack force, crouched and prepared to leave the cover of the trees for the assault. It would be a hit and run attack, quick and decisive. Packed dwarven explosive powder had been brought up into the vanguard and was held by special mule units who would rush forth as soon as the undead were cleared and blast the biggest ziggurats sky high.

"With luck, we'll be in and out before the undead know what happen. When they come to their senses, they'll have lost contact with all forces in the region and we might've just turned the tides in this theater."

The battle was about to begin. Trumpets rang out and banners were lifted, the men now closely bound by the bonds of war marching confidently under the leadership of the one who'd led them through long weeks of hardship to constant victories. The relationship between the soldiery and leadership was complete and trusting. It was that exact relationship that was needed to win a war, Valdar had once been taught. It required casting aside friends like Thorek and Helmsworth and treating them as the subordinates they now were, but if in the end it led them to victory Valdar would have gladly paid the pain.

"Here we go. See you at the end." Thorek shut his visor and galloped off.

"Milord, the undead are taken by complete surprise." A womanly voice called out, one of the new recruits.

"Very well. Give them three volleys before advancing the main force."

The calls rang out, _arrows raise, ignite, notch, fire!_

Wave after wave of flaming projectiles were sent forth, their killing power enhanced by Casper Valus' magical prowess, turning each arrow into a dart of blue fire so hot they left contrails of steaming air behind.

Smoke began to rise above the treetops, and when the last volley was loosed, the first wave had already begun to move forward. Valdar, surrounded by staff, rushed forward to witness the unfolding conflict. As the trees thinned, the great fields of the Scourge's pyramids came into view, each pulsing with evil intent.

His first lines easily overwhelmed the meager defenses that had barely just been summoned on the outskirts of the ruined town. Passing him with each moment, more souls entered into battle, just adding to the overwhelming surprise that they'd already achieved.

"See how they can't form their troops to match us?" Valdar pointed out to his commanders. "It's because firstly, they have no information about our strength. Though they're all interconnected via their summoners, they can't mold to us because of that exact strength. They're unsure. A good human commander would pull his force back to regroup at the least and try to get a hold of the situation. Here they're just throwing whatever they have at us in an attempt to stem the tide. Little do they know…" the general of the Dogs of War gave a whistle.

Out from the northern trees emerged more banners, more glinting armor, and behind them men carrying pots of explosive dwarven powder. As the line pushed back into the town, the front began to stiffen as more undead came into play, though because they were pouring everything onto their front, they failed to realize the ploy behind the battle: the sappers were setting up their powerful bombs beneath every one in five ziggurat. As the minutes passed, Valdar looked nervously at his father's stopwatch which he'd brought with him along his journey.

When no more than twenty minutes had passed, he gave the signal. Trumpets rang out harshly signaling the general retreat. The forces which had come from the northern copses descended upon the undead time and time again as the main force withdrew. As the hit and run attacks slowed the undead behemoth, the main force made it back safely to the trees and began to sort for a defense. Quickly drawing the undead's attention, the northern force began their fall back to the cover of the forests as well.

When the undead had come halfway between the forest and Corrin's Crossing, right in the middle of the pyramid field, the fuses ran out and the massive stockpiles of black powder ignited, shaking the ground and sending plumes of dirt and flame a hundred feet each into the sky, taking with them countless of the undead's forces.

"Exactly as planned." Valdar smirked. Whirling smoke rose from the raging fire below. Now and again a secondary explosion would pop off, though the main damage had been done. The undead would be in complete disarray. If they reformed to attack now, they might just utterly destroy the stronghold of Corrin's Crossing. As Valdar was about to give the order, a bedraggled man on a scrawny horse foaming at the mouth pushed his way through the crowd to reach Valdar.

"Sire, the undead! They've breached the Alteran Pass! Tens of thousands of them! Demons! Everything they have!" the missive screamed before falling off his horse in exhaustion.

"Shit…" he immediately looked at Rogir Helmsworth who stood not far from him.

The man gave a nod, a simple admission of his opinion. He wanted to return and try to salvage the defensive force in the Pass. Valdar wanted to destroy Corrin's Crossing though. Though if the undead passed through the Pass, they might overwhelm Castle Perres and the 8th Army, and Ellena was in Perres. His heart tore for a moment between the perfect opportunity and the loss of their whole rear.

"Sir look!" The undead horde buzzing around Corrin's was forming perfectly to meet the attackers. It had been a trap. Those ziggurats might not have even been active. Crestfallen, Valdar turned the horse around.

"We'll fall back for now. We need to regain control of the Pass." He ordered, and before the undead could catch up to them the Dogs disappeared into the trees, now burning with the same flames that had just smelled like victory.

Later that night, near Cenarius' Moonglade

Beastly furbolgs gathered for their daily ritual around an enchanted Moonglade, which had long since been a sacred place for the Fangpaw Tribe. The small forest clearing held an unnatural object within its center, which was covered in vine-growth and contained waters that seemed to pulsate with life and vibrancy.

In the many years since the end of the night elves high civilization under Queen Azshara, many of the Moonwells had been built and forgotten, places where the unnatural and natural met and prospered together. This one had been one of Cenarius' favorite places, Mannaroth remembered.

He and the dreadlord Tichondrious walked through the forest filled with life, leaving scorched earth in their wake. Upon the sight of the massive pit lord, many of the Fangpaw furbolgs bolted in terror, running off into the underbrush. Some however, the tribe's warriors, held their ground, barking something in their primitive tongue.

Mannaroth smirked as he merely waved his body length javelin at them, instantly splitting three of them in half. The others charged, intent on avenging their comrades, but Mannaroth simply roared and rose up on his hind legs. As he came down, he smashed the remaining two furbolgs into a bloody pulp, sending fractures through the ground as well.

Ignoring the events that had just taken place, he walked up to the shimmering waters of the Moonglade. "After ten thousand years, I still remember this place…" he spoke, voice sending the branches of the leaves shuddering. "This was the vale of our ancient enemy, the night elves' demi-god, Cenarius."

"Yes, Lord Archimonde demands that Cenarius be dealt with before we launch the invasion of Kalimdor. He proved far too troublesome last time to be allowed free reign now." Tichondrious replied, walking up to the Moonglade pool.

"Hm, I would relish the chance to meet him in combat again, though he is crafty and rarely appears in the open." Mannaroth remembered all the times that he and Cenarius had fought in battle. In those days, he had found a worthy adversary in the demi-god.

"Fateful as it sounds your pet orcs have recently despoiled these forest lands and incurred his wrath. Lord Archimonde believes the orcs are capable of killing Cenarius for us." Tichondrious' tone hinted at scheming.

"They would have little chance against Cenarius. His powers were quite formidable."

"Yes, but so are yours. The Blood Pact you made with the orcs long ago still binds them. You need only recharge their energies."

"And just what are you suggesting, dreadlord?"

"Spill your burning blood into this pool. Its corruption will lure the orcs to it. Once they feast on your blood again, they will be unstoppable."

Mannaroth's face broke into a hideous smile, and then a deep rumble erupted from his gut, a twisted laugh. "Very well. I see that you and Lord Archimonde have planned this well. So be it."

Mannaroth brandished a smoking dagger that hung from a pouch of loose flesh under his wing and sliced open his arm with speed that didn't seem to fit his form. Holding the arm over the pool, he let the boiling green liquid that constituted as his blood. Quickly the pools waters turned from azure to a foul red. Mannaroth's laugh continued to ring into the forest, sending the ripples of fate towards the Warsong orcs.

The next morning, Darrowshire

Joseph Redpath looked out over the plains before Darrowshire. Atop the basin that the town lay in earthworks and traps had been erected. The trenches had been rebuilt, and the final defenses erected. A cloud of dust rose in the distance. Knots of townspeople stood, beholding the spectacle for themselves. Last night several families had made flight, trying to escape the town.

This morning, scouts had reported that there were undead closing in the same places that those families had tried to escape in. The mountain paths still hadn't melted yet, so there was no choice but to hold out for a final battle.

One hundred and sixty versus thousands…

"So be it." Redpath said, finding his resolve. If it was to indeed be the last fight, then he would make the Scourge fear men once again.

"Myyra, take the children and stay in the cellar until this is over." He said, looking directly into his wife's eyes. She nodded, and with a kiss disappeared into the Darrowshire basin.

"Carlin," he shouted, calling for his brother. "You're the last one I'm sending out. Then take this note to Castle Perres in Alterac. I heard the 8th Army is down there. Get their help as well. If you can't find a way back into town, take the mountain paths."

"But that's suici—"

"One person should be able to get past the undead armies that surround us. You need to tell people of our story. Now go." Redpath turned, and when he looked back, Carlin had already left. He would know what to do.

"The enemy is forming up Captain Redpath! The first wave consists of walking cadavers, zombies, and skeletal troops. We couldn't see beyond that." A scout reported running back towards the town.

"Weakest in the vanguard, eh?" Redpath mused.

"Does that mean we can win?" Mayor Rykov asked his brow now slick with sweat. Joseph hadn't even noticed the man walk up to him.

"Mayor, please take the people and remain in the town until this is finished. From now on, I'm in charge." Joseph ordered.

"Very well." The mayor gathered up the townspeople and led them to the town's cellars and catacombs. They would be safe there-hopefully.

The defenders rushed to their stations. The plan had changed from the last time there had been battle. Now, the spearmen would pull back into a tighter circle around the city, behind the first trench and Long Mound. Before and after the Mound, fields of pitch had been set up, courtesy of a raided undead caravan from earlier in the month. The first trench was also filled with the stuff, and the militia had used the remainder of it to lather up several human sized balls made of branches and debris. The archers would remain directly behind the pike men, and the reserves stood in wait on either flank.

Now, with a single man atop the Long Mound waving a flag, the archers let their flaming volley loose. As the missiles arced through the sky and hit the ground, the horizon ignited with burning pitch and thick, greasy smoke rose in the air. The howls and shrieks of the undead forces caught in the flames filled the ears of the defenders.

"Here they come." Joseph muttered. The man on the Long Mound dropped his flag and leaped over the pitch filled trench, running to his side.

"Many thousands are out there. They're first wave is a great mass lumbering through the bodies of their fallen comrades. I saw behind them the great ghoul that led the last great attack against us, the one named Horgus."

"That was the bastard that led the attack on Nathanos…" someone near spat.

"I promise you, whatever way this battle goes, I will avenge you Nathanos." Joseph promised himself.

"My best estimate was that there are over five thousand undead out there. There was also a dark figure atop a horse. He looked like one of those fallen paladin death knights that we've heard about. Fearsome he was."

"Alright, Davos, take your place in the line." Joseph replied, and the man disappeared.

"Five thousand, huh?" another man next to Joseph said with a grin. It was Elyor Vertras, one of the town's most unsuccessful hunters. Elyor had never brought in a catch greater than a sack of pigeons, but he never gave up.

"Just more for us to slay." Joseph replied, returning the smile.

"Good!" Elyor yelled, filling the men beside him with vigor.

Then, all of a sudden, a massive wave of undead appeared over the Long Mound. Stuttering zombies, bleeding ghouls, and clumsy skeletal phalanxes all moving forward. Some of them still had scorch marks from the fire that still raged beyond the mound.

The archers fired one more time, setting it to flames. The great balls of twigs and branches were brought up and pushed forward into the fire. The balls rolled downhill, becoming unstoppable juggernauts that crushed everything in their way.

But with the tenacity of those beyond the grave, the undead force rolled forward inexorably through the fire and smoke. Some collapsed from too much damage, but others continued, merely stepping over the fallen.

"This is it! FIRST LINE, CHARGE!" Joseph bellowed. With battle cries, the sixty men armed with crude wooden spears charged forward to meet the enemy. In a spiral of gore and violence, the front line of defenders left the enemy no room to maneuver as they trapped them against the wall of fire. Those behind continued to line up and push in an attempt to get through the crowd and to the fighting, but that only worked to the defender's advantage. The undead that were stuck behind were continually peppered by arrow-fire and damaged by the raging flames.

The longer that the fighting lasted though, Joseph began to see that his men were starting to tire. He saw one fall to his knees in exhaustion, and was instantly impaled by four shafts and swords. Another was caught off guard by a scythe wielding skeleton and lacerated from shoulder to hip.

_Just how many more of these bastards can there be? _

Much longer, and his forces would begin to crack. He held up two hands and signaled for the reserves to move forward. Another fifty men came up from the basin.

"Push them to the fire and hold them there!" The order went out. With fresh reinforcements, the undead were pushed all the way back to the fire. In what seemed like hours of fighting, at least a thousand undead were sprawled on the plain before Darrowshire.

For a few minutes, the undead seemed to pull back, unsure of what to do. The attack had cost them greatly, but they had felled a dozen and a half of the Darrowshire defenders. More losses than the entire militia's losses since the war began combined.

Redpath took the reprieve as time to reform his forces. The undead would come again through the dying fires, and would hit them harder than before. They would send a new wave of fresh, stronger troops as well. How could they defend against it? Pulling his men into a tighter formation was the only solution he could come up with.

And so the militia, now a hundred and forty five, tightened their defensive line. The undead washed over the hills again, this time with a new strength amongst them. Horgus, the slavering ghoul, the one in a ten thousand chance that had retained his mind and grown stronger for it, led the second wave. Before the force passed through the flames however, a dark figure appeared on the hills outside of town.

_So that's him. The leader of the Scourge here. _

"Black Knight! Come forward and battle me!" Joseph shouted out, fury boiling his blood.

Just Outside Darrowshire

"Black Knight! Come forward and battle me!" a pathetically human voice shouted out. From his height, it sounded so weak.

Marduk, Death Knight of the Lich King, watched the battle unfold personally. The first force had been unexpectedly driven back by the small numbers of the defenders. He accepted the fact though, knowing that they'd had a great amount of time to set up traps.

Horgus would lead this attack personally. He'd fought these Darrowshirers before, and if he came back defeated again, Marduk resolved to end the miserable creature's life in an instant.

"You wish to challenge me, human?" Marduk replied. "Your mere existence would be crushed by my simple presence." The death knight smirked evilly. It had been a long time since he'd had a fight. His sword hand itched, but he remained stalwart. He wanted to see how these human peasants would do against his army.

"Bring yourself down here, demon! Fight me so we can settle this without any more blood!" the human called out nobly.

"You must be Joseph Redpath. Yes, the leader of the Darrowshire militia. Your tenacity annoys me, Redpath. It all ends now. Farewell, Darrowshire." Holding his arms to the air, Marduk let a single command flow through his mind to his minions. Attack.

Stonetalon Mesa, Kalimdor

Jaina Proudmoore peered over the edge of the precipice. For now the orcish tide had been stemmed. Her force however had been split in three, and unless Balon Swiftmane's troop was relieved soon they would collapse under the constant siege.

Whoever was commanding the orcs was certainly a skilled commander. And the question remained; how did the orcs get here? They'd taken some prisoners in the fighting who had confirmed that they were fighting against the New Horde. Apparently their leader was the same orc who'd been famous in Lordaeron for his uprisings against the internment camps, Thrall.

She didn't however, have time for thinking about such things. The orcs were the enemy, no matter who led them. Though she didn't understand this Thrall and his logic, she had seen for herself the aggressive driving tactics that he used. He was indeed an incredible offensive general.

Jaina looked behind her, towards the narrow cliffside path that led to the peak of Stonetalon. Up there was supposedly the Prophet. Up there lay the answers that she needed for her people. She could sense the terrible evil that had descended upon the world of late, and felt its tendrils slowly creep up on her, as if wanting to throttle her in her sleep. Jaina knew that whatever evil was happening in the world, it would soon be here.

She needed to see the Prophet, and now. Taking with her twenty of the best soldiers she could muster and leaving command in the able hands of the paladin Ballador the Bright. Together, bringing food and supplies for days in case of emergencies, they made the long climb, and entered the darkness of the cavern.

Darrowshire Defensive Line

Joseph Redpath secured the loose armor vest by tying two pieces of the slashed leather placer together. The death knight atop the hill was undoubtedly in control of the attack. If they could just get to him…

Before he could think further, the second wave of undead smashed into the defensive line. Abominations under cover of artillery and a few gargoyles ripped into the line.

"Bring them down!" Joseph motioned towards the archers who broke formation and grabbed the long, thick hempen ropes that hung before them. Fifty men dashed towards the front lines, the one in the lead guiding the others. Each force waited until the abominations were far enough away from their lines to approach, and allowed the pike men to prod and gain the beast's attention. Then, they ran in quickly around the abomination, lassoing its limbs tightly to its body, and then giving a tug in the direction of more undead. One by one, the abominations tumbled to the ground, crushing their allies.

The few archers who hadn't moved continued to fire at the gargoyles, though the flying monsters quickly shifted their attention to them and picked them off, tossing them high into the air and watching their bodies splatter on the ground.

"We're losing too many men!" Joseph's thoughts shouted out loud. In the frantic whirl of battle though, he doubted anyone heard him. The sky had turned brown due to the dust being thrown into the air from the fight. Much more, and the Darrowshire defenders would be swept out the way.

Joseph spotted the ghoul Horgus suddenly. He was standing behind two abominations not fifty yards away. The image of Nathanos' burning house suddenly sprung to his mind, and he rushed forward without thinking. From the side a Wight jumped towards him, but he simply slashed his sword at it. It didn't follow.

Jumping over a pile of ghouls that lay in a smoking heap over the last embers of the trench fire, Joseph hit the ground with a thud and skidded between the legs of one of Horgus' abominations right up to the sentient ghoul itself. With a mighty cry, Joseph heaved his entire body forwards and placed his feet on the ground to pick up friction and propel him upwards. The sword barely missed Horgus, slicing the air right under his chin. The ghoul backed away, but not before producing his own weapon; a short sword of black metal.

"The human wants to fight?" he spoke in a voice that sounded like rot itself.

"Bring it on, bastard!" Joseph ran forward, swinging madly at Horgus. The ghoul evaded clumsily, and then stabbed back. The militia captain pulled back, the blade narrowly missing his stomach in a slicing motion that left a gash in the scale armor he wore over his front.

Twirling around, Joseph sliced at one of the abominations that had turned to face him. Again missing, he ran sideways. Horgus paralleled his movement, and jumped forward with surprising speed.

Parrying, Joseph pivoted and tried to trip the ghoul with a kick to the legs, but Horgus jumped up. As Joseph recovered, he noticed himself surrounded by undead. He'd wandered too far from his lines. Cursing, he girded himself for the final blow as all the enemies surrounding him rushed forward. Redpath closed his eyes and brought the sword back for one final strike.

"It's not your time to die yet, Joseph." A voice said, calmly.

Opening one eye, then the other, Joseph Redpath noticed that the undead had stopped their attack and were suddenly dazed and confused. He heard the sudden gallop of horse hooves and carnage of battle immediately around him. Horsemen plowed through the undead, riding them down with ease. A shadow was suddenly appeared over Redpath, blocking out the red sun.

"I've brought five hundred infantry with me, including a dozen of the Silver Hand. You can still turn this tide. Let's ride to battle together, Joseph." The voice said.

Turning, Joseph saw Davil Crokford. He and his paladins had finally returned.

Darrowshire, one hour later

The battle had reached a standstill quite suddenly. With the arrival of Davil Crokford, his paladins, and their small force of Tyr's Hand infantry, the undead were once again pushed back beyond the trench to the base of the Long Mound. The last attack had claimed almost forty casualties, or so Redpath estimated.

The reinforcements set a defensive perimeter around the town, and the undead began to reform their forces. There was an eerie lull in the fighting. Only when both forces had retreated to their respective positions did the consequences of the battle become fully realized. The entire ground, from the basin to the Long Mound was carpeted with undead. Here and there knots of dead bodies from the human defenders lay as a testament to their vicious defense.

Davil Crokford and Joseph Redpath stood together, over viewing the battleground. Davil, once a Darrowshire man himself, was familiar with the terrain. His forces had arrived not an hour before, and quickly set themselves up for the attack that had taken the second wave by surprise.

"Before we attacked, we could spy from our position that that last wave sent in included the bulk of the undead army. What they had remaining back there was probably the reserves. I must congratulate you on an incredible defense, Joseph; goes to show that even an old timer like you can coordinate better than the damn noblemen who lead the armies." Davil complimented, smiling.

"My thanks, but even with these reinforcements we can still bring to bear barely six hundred defenders. Against the few thousand they have remaining, which are most likely their best troops. Not to mention the death knight himself." Joseph said.

"Don't worry. When it comes to it, I will take care of that traitorous bastard myself. Marduk was once one of the paladin trainers of the Grand Monastery, but betrayed his people and order almost as soon as the undead began to rise." Davil spat vehemently. His disgust at the death knight was clear. "We now call him Marduk the Black. He seems to have become quite obsessed with destroying Darrowshire."

"A fitting name, with a fitting objective. We've become quite the nuisance." Joseph remembered the black figure that stood atop the Long Mound, overseeing his minions die in the hundreds without the slightest drop of guilt for what he was doing.

"Looks like they're coming again." Davil looked up, pointing to the horizon. The ground began to shake with the approaching army. The undead would come with everything they had now, but gazing at his men, Joseph saw newfound hope. They were eager he realized. They wanted to end this battle once and for all.

Immaculate in his paladin armor, Davil strode forward. His Silver Hand knights gathered about and together they went to their knees in prayer. Joseph bowed his head. Either way, this was the end. It would be the finale. The paladin's voices melded together like a quartet, blending like flavors and feelings into a single unison of wills.

_The Light gives mercy unto its children. _

_The Light lends power unto its followers. _

The images of Myyra and his children floated through Joseph's mind; the days when all seemed peaceful and content, now so far away. Joseph found it hard to remember the feel of the freshly grown wheat under his fingers, and couldn't recall the smell of the crisp autumn rains.

_Through the intercession of Saints, protect us._

_Protect the helpless and weak, the children and old. _

_The will of the Light flows through all, and we take up its commandments as our own._

Looking around, Joseph saw that that many of the militia as well as the infantry that Davil had brought were praying along with them. It was the 5th Solemn Calling, a common verse found in the Lexicon of the Light. The voice of the prayer grew, filling the air until Joseph wasn't sure if the vibrations he felt in the ground was the undead army or the chanting.

_O by the Divine, help us overcome this plague of war. _

_You, who have brought us to this place, grant us the strength to end this travesty. _

_Grant us the strength to establish our peace and love and justice. _

The prayer ended. Over the hump of the Long Mound, the undead appeared. Men began opening their eyes once again, filled with determination. Grasping weapons as hard as they could, the men of Darrowshire and their allies stood firm.

Atop the Long Mound, Marduk the Black awed at how simple peasants and men could find such courage and resolve in their hearts to stand against the impossible force arrayed against them. Contrary to what had been told by the militia defenders, there were more than ten thousand undead in the area, all pouring into the same battle zone, twice the numbers than had been reported. Surely, Marduk thought, they must have noticed it by now.

Horgus had remained with the reorganizing troops, not wanting to return for fear of Marduk's wrath and also because of his own desire to avenge his failings. The ghoul lord roared a cry that pierced the sky with his anguish and hatred. Rushing forward, Horgus jumped clean over four men with his superhuman strength, crashing straight into the middle of the formation.

The massive undead army smashed into the defenders head on. With the paladins in the lead, golden auras blazing, the defenders swung madly like men possessed. No longer caring about pain or suffering or glory, each man fought like a flagellant, high on battle.

Davil Crokford, finding peace within the Light, unleashed his latent power. The years of training, experience, and war finally emerged. Eyes on fire, Davil compressed the pressure of his holy magic into an almost physical form, which blew away the dust clouds over the entire battlefield and allowed the sun to shine in freely. Literally glowing, Davil and his followers complemented by the defenders cut bloody swathes into the undead that emerged, but not without their own losses.

At one point in the blur of a battle, Joseph saw out of the corner of his eye a paladin, and a moment later after he blinked, the holy warrior's head was flying through the air and blood streaming out of his neck stump. Left and right the militia and infantry were being surrounded and cut down by the sheer force of numbers.

Then, at a moment when the swirl of fighting was most indistinct, Horgus and Davil Crokford spotted one another. Knowing each other to be one of the leaders of the opposing armies, they charged forward. Joseph saw Davil break off his fight with a skeleton and dash towards the ghoul lord and did the same. Before he could reach the two however, the dead defenders that surrounded him began to rise, putrid magic steaming from their reanimated bodies.

For long minutes Horgus and Davil fought; parry for parry, slash for slash, dodge for dodge. The ghoul and paladin fought for openings, each a warrior matched. Davil was surprised by the tenacity and cunning of his opponent, and Horgus, by the pure determination and skill of his.

"Damn!" Joseph tried to fight his way out of his own battle to aid Davil. He could see that the paladin had begun to tire, having ridden the whole day to combat the enemy the moment he arrived. Redpath could feel his own muscles aching and burning. He'd contracted several deep cuts which bled profusely, but he didn't have the time to mind them.

Suddenly, Davil threw his sword at Horgus, who side-stepped to the left. The attack had been a trap. Lunging forward, Davil brought his hands back and prepared to clap them together on Horgus' head sending waves of rebounding wave of holy magic at the ghoul. Horgus fell into the lure perfectly, moving exactly where Davil had wanted him to go.

The beams of the Holy Light's energy threw the ghoul backwards into a crowd of his own forces. The power and cleansing powers of the Light instantly worked against the evil and unnatural necromancy that held Horgus together. The ghoul stood back up, screaming Everything that had happened since the day Horgus had become one of the unwilling subjects of the Scourge rushed back to him; emotion, infliction, pain.

Cursing with inarticulate words, the ghoul stumbled, the last remnants of its flesh falling off in smoking heaps. Davil sighed, his shoulders sagging. The undead around him had frozen; their commander unable to command them. Turning slightly, Davil brought his hand up to his chest. Joseph then noticed that the paladin had been stabbed right above the heart, most likely through the lung.

Coughing up blood, Davil stood his ground, waiting for the enemy to attack, back turned to the ailing Horgus. With a final step, Horgus brandished the dagger he'd used to fight Davil earlier, sinking it deep into Davil's back near his shoulder blade.

"Shit! Davil!" Joseph shouted out. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't push his way out of the blockade of bodies that kept him from the young paladin. Davil Crokford fell to his knees, looking up to the sky before finally collapsing.

"NO!" It took moment to realize the scream had come from himself. Unable to stand it anymore, Joseph Redpath's mind snapped. "Everyone forward! Kill them all!"

And so behind him, the defenders hopped out of the trench, broke formations, and went forward to meet the enemy. So unexpected was the counter-attack that the undead force simply melted away before the blood lusted might of the defenders.

The men of Darrowshire rushed forward, past the burning trench, past the Long Mound, past the piles of charred bodies in the burned out pitch field, past the outer city hills and into the open fields of eastern Lordaeron.

Dozens died in the charge, but it never lost its drive. The once beleaguered and surrounded men who'd viciously defended their town were on the offensive. Nothing seemed to be able to stop them. The Scourge's chain of command had been broken. Horgus was dead, and so too had most of the intermediates; the necromancers, overlords, and sentients of the Scourge's force, slain almost directly when the fight had turned.

Marduk the Black emerged from the back of his lines sensing the chaos. He attempted to rally what he could, but with the delicate strings that attached the summoner's mind to that of its minions as well as the lack of mana to control an entire army, he could only bring a few followers to heel.

In the head of the last few dozen freedom fighters ran Joseph Redpath, intent on slaying Marduk the Black, whom he spotted amongst the chaos of the Scourge's rearguard. Behind the dying attack were the bodies of hundreds of men, and thousands of undead.

It was one of those moments in history; the few against the many, the strong against the weak. These were the stories that made legends, echoing into history. The moment was a perfect picture. Joseph Redpath with his remaining forces charging towards the ebon-plated Marduk and his troops past legions of the crumbing undead army in the midst of the dusty air, the sun tinted blood red. And victory was almost theirs.

With a mind set on Marduk and nothing else, Joseph didn't even know if the men were following him. He couldn't feel anything except the sword in his hand and the presence of his family in the town, pushing him forward.

Marduk jumped off his horse and brought the rune blade that hung behind his back to bear. Running forward to meet his great enemy for the first and last time, Marduk shouted out. Knowing the man running towards him by his eyes, he ignited his rune blade with magical energy which now pulsed with wisps of dread fire. From the first time he'd heard the name Redpath from Horgus to the very moment before, he'd never thought of him as anything more than a mere piece of trash; unwilling to accept that a human devoid of any specialty, any great fate, could defeat him.

"_Marduk_!"

_"Redpath_!"

A defining instant…the two swords clashed. Redpath and Marduk both stumbled forward.

"In the end we came this far…we were so close…" Joseph said bloodied eyes half lidded. The dread fire had traveled off Marduk's rune blade and down his burning the right side of his body. In the instant after the clash, Marduk had spun around and slashed at Redpath's abdomen.

Blood began to pour out of the mortal wound. Joseph twisted to see his enemy one more time. Dropping his blade, Joseph Redpath took a step forward, then another, staggering as his body threatened to give way and split in half. He tasted blood in his mouth, felt it cascading out onto his chest. Reaching forward, Joseph put two hands on Marduk's chest. Bringing one back, he balled it up as the death knight watched, curious as to what his enemy would do.

With all his last energy, Joseph brought his fist right into the death knight's cheek, and collapsed. Marduk spat out a gob of blood and looked at the body of Joseph Redpath. A silent gust of wind picked up, and the battlefield began to silence. The remaining warriors of Darrowshire were cornered and slain individually, ending the resistance.

"Congratulations for coming this far. Your arms reached over months and bodies, but could never surpass me. Joseph Redpath, you and the dead men you once commanded will now serve under me as well as they did under you." And so Marduk the Black initiated his resurrection rituals, raising what bodies could be salvaged from the battle.

Heights overlooking Darrowshire

Carlin Redpath looked on with tears rolling down his face. He had just witnessed the final charge, the near breaking of the Scourge army, and the final collapse of the defenders.

The dead were now being harvested, brought back to live once again as the very enemy they struggled against in life. Green flashes of light signaled their rebirth, and with it the undead advanced into town, burning and slaughtering the citizens of Darrowshire.

He and the few who had been sent out in the past days to find help would now be the only Darrowshire men left. As the last snow of the season fell and the town of Darrowshire burned amongst the screams and cries of its people, Carlin Redpath turned to face the Alterac Mountains.

The sun setting, he resolved, no matter what was thrown at him through the dangerous passes and paths of these mountains, he would survive to tell the world of the brave ending of Darrowshire; the long struggle against inevitability, the defiance and warmth of the people of a sleepy hamlet in the middle of nowhere, and the beating hearts that fought for freedom and life. He would tell the tale of heroes, one which would spread throughout the world and go down in history.


	32. Chapter 31: Despair and Revelations

**Chapter 31: Despair and Revelation **

In the shadowed forests of Ashenvale

Yul Roughand heaved the axe back once again, chopping deep into the wood of the thick tree. All around the other peons were doing the same, hundreds of them, all chopping and chopping.

"Work work, the day's work." The chant hung low in the air, the peons unspirited. It was this forest, and those strange elves. Everything about this place felt wrong. It was dark and spooky, and sometimes balls of bright light with ghostly faces in them would zip by and frighten off his comrades.

Then the word of the attacks by the purple skinned warrior women on the northernmost outposts began to circulate like rumors. Yul had heard that there were half a million of the warrior women descending on them. Another story had it that they rode on birds and three headed dragons, and were backed by the very trees themselves, which would uproot and reveal a stag-man more powerful than even the old lords of the Horde.

"You there!" an angry voice shouted out. "Go move this wood to the mill!" The big warrior orc kicked over Yul's stack of wooden blocks.

"Dabu." The peon replied, silently fuming. _We may be weak, but without us you wouldn't have your weapons and armor, warrior. _

Yul barely made three trips before screams pierced the air. A rumble came from the west. The other peons had stopped as well, looking up to the tall tree covered cliffs that way.

"What was that?" he heard himself saying.

Before he or the other peons could do anything else, the warrior who had just ordered him about ran past, blood seeping from a deep head wound. His eyes were crazed and fearful, foam frothing at his mouth.

"Evil spirits! Hundreds of them! They are coming. RUN!" the warrior screamed before bolting off. Now Yul was truly disturbed. There was little that could send a fully fledged orc warrior running like that.

More orcs began to run by, trying desperately to escape. Then they became a river, rushing past, all consumed by fear. Yul saw the chief of the nojar he'd been assigned to, trying to push past the flood of warriors with several at his side.

"We must retreat to the other side of the river!" one of them said.

"There are too many!" another blurted.

"Damn cowards! Out of my way!" the chief spoke, pushing his subordinates out of his path.

Yul knew that he ought to run too, but fear paralyzed him. What was so terrible that could make an entire orcish battalion run for its life? Confused, dazed, and scared like a newborn child, the peon lost control of his bladder and wet his pants.

Then the forest behind him began to move. He heard the desperate and agonized screams of the orcs who had run past him. Slowly turning his head he saw that the forest itself had come alive. The trees moved by their roots, and below, the dark figures of tall women rode black panthers.

Before Yul knew it, the scythed shadow shuriken of one of the panther riders cut deep through his neck, decapitating the helpless peon.

Warsong Headquarters, Ashenvale

"Chieftain, the dark elves are appearing everywhere. They've overrun most of our outposts. The very forests are their allies, and from the skies come multitudes of creatures that overwhelm our orcs." A messenger announced, rushing into the skin tent that Hellscream had made his headquarters.

The Warsong clan's 10,000 warriors had been split into three main bahads, each of approximately 3,000. Each bahad had been fanned out into the forest and further split into many lumber camps after the first of the dark skinned elf women had been dispersed. Then this had happened.

Grom felt his blood boiling. It was the perfect battle. They were outnumbered, overpowered, and outsmarted.

Outside the commotion was evident. Orcs were rushing to try and create a frontline, a place where they knew where battle would be instead of constant chaos. Grom realized that that was what was happening: chaos. The elf women's way of battle was to sow absolute randomness into the minds of rigid battle regimens. They'd practiced such ways for hundreds, if not thousands of years. It reminded Grom of the years he'd fought the humans in guerilla warfare.

Grom noticed the ultimate practicality of such impractical tactics. As they were, his orcs wouldn't stand a chance. He would have to change tactics. And so he did.

He ordered units of orcs into the heat of battle. The battle continued to rage for the rest of the day, only intensifying at night. With his orcs tactics constantly changing, turning from solid to liquid, retaining their amorphousness, he began to see patterns in the elves' movements.

His forces too, however, were becoming tired. The orcs didn't have enough energy to continue. By dawn, his reserves had been fully used, and he'd ordered them to fall back. The sheer numbers of the enemy had become too great, and anything that remained on the west side of the river that divided his forces, would be crushed.

Reports came in during a lull in the battle from the various chiefs. He'd lost up to a quarter of his force in the fighting, dead and missing. There had been one glaring problem, all throughout the night however; the rumors of the massive, unstoppable elf-horse being. Anywhere he appeared, he would flatten the orcish settlements with impunity. As the sun rose, the name Cenarius had emerged.

"Chieftain, it's a monster…" one orc shouted as Grom stepped into the middle of a route that was spreading from one of the last outposts.

"Back in line, filth!" he shouted.

"Chieftain—there's no way we can beat that thing." The grunt said, the reek of fear thick on him.

Another grunt blurted out, "We are pressed hard on all sides, and the demi-god still hounds us from the forest. Howe can we possibly defeat him!?"

"I'll show you a monster you damn coward!" Grom's axes appeared in his hands instantaneously, etching bloody grooves on the orc's chest. The retreating orcs got the message and began to line up, however bone-weary they were.

"Hellscream." A wiry voice spoke up through the din. The island troll witch doctor Het-xen which had accompanied the clan thus far approached from behind, flanked by two more of the blue skinned beings.

"What is it, elder?" Grom asked, in a tone indicated that he held the old troll in higher regard than his underlings.

"The one whom yo' fight, this Cenarius, he be unstoppable by yo' methods."

"So it would seem. He's broken through our every defense. And behind him are ten thousand elves and living trees. At this rate…"

"At this rate we be dead by nightfall. Yo' must call the bel' to fall back." The troll jingled the bones on his staff.

"Run? Never! I'd rather die here." Grom spat a globule of mucus on the floor, disgusted at the idea. Bravado wouldn't save them however, he knew. Wherever Cenarius appeared, all the orcish defenses were crushed to less than pulp.

"Then if you insist on stayin…there might'n be another way."

"I'm open to suggestions."

"Me and me boys can feel a strong power comin' from the north, just off the coast of the riva'." Het-xen pointed. "It's a dark energy emanating from the wilderness, and it mighten be the clue to defeat Cenarius."

"So be it. You'll guide us, elder." At the head of the Warsong's ailing forces, Het-xen and Hellscream burrowed deep into the forest, warding off attacks from the ferocious and ever present dark elves, reaching deep into Ashenvale.

At an Unknown Location, Deep Underground

The Proprietor as he called himself had guided Cyrus around the massive labyrinth of underground tunnels that honeycombed from the main chamber to his new living quarters.. The same pulsing purple luminescence filled the neatly built tunnels, each with walls that seemed to be black glass, fused together by heat from the very earth itself.

Every now and again a figure shrouded beneath a silver cloak and robe would pass by, bowing deeply to the Proprietor. Each bore a strange medallion that hung from a grotesque necklace that seemed to be made of dried flesh. The medallion looked like an eye, with a horde of tentacles pouring from beneath and above the eye, as if lashes.

The room he'd been given was spartan at best; a bed of hay with some thin linen sheets (though it was pleasantly and strangely warm in the underground abode), as well as a change of clothes to the robes he'd seen outside. After a night's rest, which without the feeling of the Sunwell's rays, he desperately needed, the Proprietor had returned to his room.

"Come now, Cyrus, Ignorant of the Fate." The Proprietor had said, lifting his shroud to reveal a seemingly lax face, though he seemed to radiate a bluish light from deep within himself. Since arriving in whatever place this was, the cultists or whoever they were had continually referred to him as the one who was 'Ignorant of the Fate'.

"Very well, but from now on I would like to hear some answers. Who are you? What is the fraternity you spoke of? Where are we and why is it that you wield such powers?"

"We wield many powers. All powers, so to say. The Legion's strength is but a small part of us, an incorporation into everything that we know. This brotherhood waives not the weak, but accepts it just as any other thing into our knowledge. That is how we grow."

"Sounds hypocritical to me. You say you take value in the smallest of things, yet you aim for the highest? You always seem to accept only the most precious and rare things, at least from what I've seen." Cyrus retorted.

"Then why did we accept you in our ranks?"

Cyrus fell silent.

"We saw your potential, however weak you were at the time. Now come, the answers to your questions lie ahead. Follow." The Proprietor led out the door, and wound through the tunnels as if they were his own backyard.

Cyrus noticed that this fraternity included those of all races; elf, human, gnome, troll, and even orc. The mystery continued to gnaw at him. Just who were these people?

Suddenly the tunnel ended, and the purple light intensified to the point where his eyes watered. Cyrus was upon a ledge, and the Proprietor seemed to walk on thin air. Puffs of light emerged at his feet. It was unlike any magic Cyrus had ever seen before.

"Come. I assure you, it's quite safe. The being below us emits such energy from even its sleeping unconscious self that it solidifies the flow of particles and energy around itself, creating a non-gaseous surface. So long as you don't stand in one place too long, you will not sink."

Cyrus looked down, his eyes wide open. Below, he saw a creature of epically gargantuan proportions. It was a massive being, with a semi-circular head that seemed to elongate and stretch into a point, with an innumerable smattering of tentacles resting below it. Eyes, half-lidded, protruded as well as spikes and mouths from all over the thing's body.

"What…is that?" Cyrus stammered.

"It has many names. The one you might have heard is Old God." The Proprietor said with a smile.

_An Old God!? _The words slammed into Cyrus full force. Old Gods were the stuff of legends. They were the oldest, most dust covered, and forgotten myths. The only knowledge of them was passed down mouth to mouth, in stories from beyond recorded history, perhaps before the elves themselves.

"Impossible. That can't be true." Cyrus said incredulously, staring at the Old God below.

"Oh, but it is. In the beginning of this world, there were the Five. They ruled supreme over elemental empires, eventually being brought to heel in a legendary war with the shapers of this world. It took dozens of the Shapers to bring these Five to the ground, and to merely chain them. When our brotherhood's ancient master discovered this being slumbering, chained to the earth, he utilized its power and began our crusade, giving us a purpose." The Proprietor continued to explain.

"This brotherhood, the _Excubitores_, are the TRUE guardians of this world. Before the Guardians of Tirisfal existed, the souls of the Excubitores fought for the safekeeping of this world. When the elves formed the Guardians of Tirisfal, we were invited into the organization. Gladly joining and eager for allies in our desperate struggle, we joined them. The great Guardian at the time, Vilnius, and our headmaster, Dragias, were hailed among the circles of spellcasters as the saviors of the age. They together constructed the great Runestones around Quel'thalas, and together fought the ever present demon threat."

Cyrus recalled the tales he was told of the Guardians. They were a reclusive organization created to maintain the balance of magic in the world and defend it from the outside threats of the Burning Legion. There were some in the organization that bore the actual title Guardian, and stood above the rest in power and intelligence, though they had always been required to answer to a small council. The Guardians vigil however, had ended with Medievh, the last of their kind.

"All this time however, the Guardians and the Excubitores never mixed well. Though we were allies and comrades, there were some things we never agreed upon; first being the simple difference in our ideologies. We Excubitores were willing to go to any lengths to save the world from the flame. The Guardians reserved themselves, believing that restraint was necessary to keep us from turning into the things we fought." The Proprietor said, speaking the last words with obvious quotation and contempt.

"Eventually, when Dragias beheld this being, this Old God, chained under the earth, he saw the perfect weapon to utilize with which us mortals could strike at the Burning Legion. It would be our first offensive. With this being in our possession, still drugged from its long fight in eons past, we could direct its power towards those undesirables, the beings who threatened Azeroth, and save it forever. It was the best opportunity we ever had."

"So what happened?" Cyrus asked, intrigued at the revelation.

"The Guardians attacked us as soon as they saw the being. They said that we had already been tempted and corrupted by its power, and so they slaughtered every last Excubitor, save Dragias, who in a titanic battle with Vilnius, escaped with his life hanging by a thread. Dragias attempted to return to his home, but found that the Guardians had torched it, along with any family, extended and close, stolen away from him. Dragias might have died that day, but his anger and sense of duty kept him alive. Meanwhile, we were cursed as traitors to the world of the living, and were purged from history, kept only alive through oral tales telling of hatred towards us."

"Dragias, being an elf, survived as a hermit for many years until the Guardians hunts began to slacken. In the shadows, Dragias rebuilt the Excubitores to his own fitting. He was unable to return to the site of the Old God, as the Guardians had placed it under an ever-present watch. Afterwards, the new Excubitores infiltrated every level of society in Lordaeron. We became advisors, councilors, Princes, and lords, slowly turning history to the course we wanted it to follow; for the continuity of its safety against the Legion. If we saw that mortals had strayed too far from their base and were in danger of attracting the Legion's attention, we turned history to a more favorable outcome. The rise of Dalaran as a center of the magical world was our decision. We planted the seeds of the city's rise, in order to make our control of the new human equation more effective. The disintegration of Arathor was also partly of our design. If the enemy was able to infiltrate such a large and powerful nation as easily as we did, they might be able to use it to commit unfathomable acts, so we separated the centralization of power into the current human states. Of course, we did this all under the watchful eyes of the Guardians, who never suspected that their old 'allies' had returned."

"Then the day came when there were no more Guardians, save their greatest champion, the Guardian himself. At that time, the present Guardian was Medievh's mother; Aegwynn. The conceited woman believed that she could best Sargeras himself with her own power, and foolishly allowed magic to be distorted enough for the Demon King's physical frame to be allowed entrance into the world. Little did she know, that after 'destroying' Sargeras' avatar, that he had implanted himself into her womb and infected the soul of her child, Medievh."

"You knew of this and did nothing?!" Cyrus exclaimed.

"Indeed. Dragias had foreseen that through this action, the Guardians would finally perish and the Excubitores would finally be allowed to return to the site of our greatest weapon; this disabled and crippled Old God. What Dragias did not see however was that Medievh would be totally taken over by Sargeras. He believed that the Guardians, especially the son of Aegwynn who had till then been the strongest of their kind, would be able to resist a fragment of corruption. Whilst we returned to this site, the Legion's infection began to spread again. In the far south, the Dark Portal opened and the orcs, minions of the Legion, poured through to complete their master's objectives, all because of Medievh."

"Though eventually the war was won, Dragias knew that the Legion would return. Unable to find a way to direct the power of the Old God, Dragias fell into despair until eventually his answer came. It lay in a vast and utterly complex series of magical literal multipliers that required the sacrifice of a soul, though it had to be the soul of a powerful magic user. Dragias was the one whom sacrificed himself, and ever since we have sought to finish the work he left for us. Though he sacrificed himself, the spell could not be completed without several years of hard work on the part of our Excubitores."

"While we labored to finish the spell which would allow us to channel the Old God's power to the Twisting Nether, the Legion returned. This disrupted our work, as the first thing the demons did as they arrived was to seize control of the natural Ley-lines, depriving us of much of the magic we used."

"So you recruited more spell-casters to help your work?" Cyrus said.

"Though the source of magic may have been lessened, it is not gone. It is easier for us to tug on the Ley-lines and gain more magical flow back with more spell-casters. As it so happens, you were selected by fate to be in the right place at the right time to aid us." The Proprietor said, patting a smooth leather sheathe from which the silver hilt of a sword protruded.

"But if you are so against the Legion, then why use their magic? Why fall to such an abyss?" Cyrus asked.

"There is no 'demonic magic', or 'Holy Light'. It is all simply an analytical flow of energy between order and chaos. The Excubitores have been around long enough to figure that out at least. Your inhibitions as a society however, inhibit the curiosity for knowledge that we so revel in just like the Guardians. And where in the end did they turn out? Playing into the hands of the enemy they once accused us of becoming. Ironic, no?"

A million questions came to thought, but Cyrus couldn't find himself to pick one. He knew better than to immediately trust these _Excubitores, _as their story sounded too perfect. They also seemed to ignore the consequences of their actions. As it seemed, the Proprietor didn't even seem to notice that because this Dragias had ignored the fact that Medievh had been infested by the spirit of Sargeras the First and Second War had occurred, causing untold deaths. Not only that, but in a way such actions might have even led up to the Legion's invasion. There were paths of knowledge that Cyrus knew he would never know, but he did know what was right and wrong.

_If I stay with them a bit longer, perhaps more will become clear to me. Perhaps I'll begin to understand why they did what this Proprietor has told me. And perhaps I'll find a way to combat the Legion, as a mortal against immortal. _Looking down at the Old God below, Cyrus took a step of faith forward. For better or worse, this was the path he would go down now.

South of the Alteran Pass, Lordaeron, a week later

Everywhere Valdar looked, the signs of destruction were etched into the land. Torn Scourge banners flapped silently, wedged in between rocks along side heads and bodies on pikes. The trees and grass had been burnt. Great gashes in the rock faces by the mountains seemed to tell the tale of war.

_How could I be so foolish?_

The thousand souls left behind to guard the pass had been attacked by an army; not just any army though. By the reports of the few survivors and the dislodged townsfolk to the south, it was gigantic: over a hundred thousand strong.

_It's all because I got excited and wanted to attack._

Columns of soldiers were marching double time south, trying to catch up with the army that had come straight through the pass like nothing was there. They'd had to leave their heavy equipment behind to catch up. For such the enemy having such a huge army, it was uncharacteristically fast for the undead. Usually they moved slowly, cautiously, drawing their enemy into a massive engagement, and then crushing as much of their strength as they could before adding it to their own.

The Scourge was now sweeping south. They would be heading straight for the south of Lordaeron and Alterac: the Hillsbrad Foothills, the Uplands, Gorge Valley, and what Valdar feared the most, Castle Peres. Ellena's face flashed through his mind, and he felt the sickening sensation of his failure again.

"We need to move faster." He said in a low tone.

"Even if we do catch up to them, what in the Light's name do you suppose we do? We have one mage, and ten thousand souls against a force ten times our size that we know next to nothing about. We don't even have a proper cavalry force." Rogir Helmsworth said flatly.

The staff had been moving together near the head of the army, just behind the pickets. He'd been repeatedly told how dangerous it was, but Valdar simply ignored the comments.

"I want to reach Peres by nightfall. We can anchor ourselves there against the undead." He said, unwavering.

"You'll break this force down if you rush it too much. The men need their rest as well, Valdar."

"As much as I enjoy you being my conscious, I don't need a lecture right now." Valdar shot back. Since the beginning of the campaign, he'd grown to like Helmsworth less and less, but still respected the man's professional opinion. After all, he had been in the command tiers for many years.

Huffing, Rogir fell silent. Annoyed at the slowness of the army and his apparent failure to keep the undead from reaching southern Lordaeron, he clicked his tongue and swore under his breath. As the morning passed into afternoon, one of Thorek's Missive operatives rode in on an exhausted pony.

"After marching down the Yeoman Road and setting fire to several small villages along the way, the Scourge army assaulted and sacked Castle Peres. The Alteracians put up a fight, but they were no match." The man reported, taking deep gulps of water from a wine sack.

Valdar's eyes went wide. That was exactly what he'd feared.

"Ellena!" he whispered.It was the only thought that went through his mind.

"When?" the knight heard Rogir say.

"Yesterday. They came with the setting sun."

"Hyah!" he immediately kicked his mount's sides and took off in a gallop, leaving his staff in the dust.

For the rest of the day he rode, pushing the poor horse to its limits. Fear and anxiety gripped his gut, wrenching at him. It was almost unbearable. As night fell, Valdar approached the old ruined Alterac castle. As the horse trudged the last few steps up the steep causeway, Valdar jumped off, coming to the ground with a crash and rolling until a wall stopped him. Valdar took a moment to come to his senses, and realized that it hadn't been a wall. It was a pile of corpses.

Horrified, he stood up and looked around. Castle Peres, which had already been in ruin, was completely leveled. The keep was thrown to the ground, and rubble was strewn everywhere. The obvious signs of fire were left on the tossed stones, blackened by ash.

"ELLENA!" Valdar shouted, frantically trying to dig through the rubble.

"_You may call me Valdar, if I am not being impolite."_

"_My name is Ellena, pleased to meet you."_

Nothing.

Again. "ELLENA!" Once again, there was nothing. Only the sad call of a lone mockingbird replied.

"_No more…I can't keep going." _

"_I'm not going to let you die out here! Up you get, Ellena!" _

Valdar's felt pain in his hands and stopped to look at them. He'd been digging in such agitation that he'd ignored the blood dripping from the torn skin and nails. Cursing, he continued the search, overturning stone, wood, bodies, and metal.

"_I know who you are! You're that boy I healed earlier this evening. The one whose courting Little Ellena." _

"Damn it all. DAMN IT ALL!" Valdar felt the stickiness of blood on his shins and knees now, the cloth torn. He ran to the place where he'd last seen Ellena, where they'd watched the sunset together.

"_Beautiful, isn't it? You know, when I was a kid, my brothers and I would chase after the sun, trying to outrun it before it set. A couple of times we got lost, but we always found our way back." _

"_Why? Why can't you stay here with me!?" _

"_Because I have a duty." _

"_Damn you and your duties, Valdar! I've seen death like you! My family was killed as well! Is it revenge you want?"_

Rushing up the hill, Valdar tripped over a large boulder, hitting his head flat on another piece of jagged stone. Wiping the seeping blood from his temple, he continued onwards, stumbling.

"_What am I supposed to do without you? I…" _

"_Live until I come back. I _will _come back. It's a promise, on my honor as a knight and the man who loves you." _

"_Then I'll wait until you return." _

The stars had come out, though dimmed by the full moon. Silver light shone down, glinting off of something, catching Valdar's attention. It was a thin ring, half hidden under some leaves that had accumulated next to a stone.

_"Take this. My father gave it to me. It's the sigil of my family." _

_A faint smile. A reassurance. _

Valdar fell to his knees, slowly reaching for the ring he'd given Ellena. He picked up the band of silver, observing it under the moonlight. He noticed that on the inside had been etched hastily a single letter that hadn't been there when he gave it away. Love.

Tears streamed down Valdar's face. He collapsed backwards, unable to process. He could see the dried blood on the ring and knew what it meant. Pain gripped his chest, gnawing like a beast at his heart. It was just too painful.

Everything was different now. Father, his brothers, even Ellena, whom he'd left behind to fight for and protect: they were all gone now. The wind gusted a little, as if trying to lift him up, but he remained on the ground, staring at the cruel, unflinching moon. He yelled a wordless cry, filled with pain and sorrow.

_"…I'll wait…" _

"I'm sorry." He blurted. "I took too long." Slowly, he felt the darkness of exhaustion creeping up on him, and let the sweet bliss of sleep embrace him.

"Valdar." A voice called out, some hours later. "Valdar!" The voice repeated.

Valdar Justax slowly opened his eyes, cringing at the sudden sunlight. He rolled over to see that the night had passed. The ring remained balled in his hand. In fact, he'd held it so tightly that his hand had completely cramped up. Truly not caring about his condition, Valdar made the effort to sit up but couldn't bring himself to stand.

The harsh voice called again. "Valdar!" He saw in the distance the army moving past the ruins of Castle Peres, ignorant of his grief. Rogir Helmsworth came striding up to him.

"There you are you damn idiot. Stand up." He tried to pull Valdar up by his arm, but the younger man wouldn't budge. Rogir noticed Valdar's state.

"You know…" he suddenly said in a soft tone. "I've seen lots of eyes like that before." Valdar looked up at him, lids half closed. "I knew that there was something here that you desperately wanted to get back to."

"My children, the four of them, died in an attack by the orcs on our home town when I was out taking my crops to Wallaceburg." Rogir said, his face hinting at the long buried sadness in his heart.

"I joined the army because I want to stop that kind of pain happening where I can. I know that I'm not a god, and that I can't prevent it. It's human nature, for people to die and leave their loved ones behind. The ones who remain carry that feeling with them the rest of their lives, but..."

Valdar had never seen the gruff man open up before. "…but, if we can carry that feeling, it means that that person really did mean something to us; proof that they existed and made a difference in our lives, no matter how small. In the end, a lot of the pain that we carry in the memories of those loved ones is that they will be forgotten. That things we go on as if they never existed, or that we could have done things differently to arrive at better outcomes."

"But the thing is, we _can't _change the past. It makes us who we are. So no matter how you look at it, whatever happened happened for a reason."

"I left her here so I could go fight. The reason I held the Alteran Pass is because of her. When I strayed to far from that goal and tried to leave, the Scourge came and killed her." Valdar said, his voice hoarse and cracking.

"Look, Valdar, I know the pain you're going through. We all know it; every one of us in this army. Everyone in the world knows. If they don't, then they will soon enough. This woman's death wasn't in vain. Her life helped shape yours. You went to the Alteran Pass to defend her, and so you created the Dogs of War and gave hope to thousands."

"It's my fault she's gone." Valdar whispered. His world had come crashing down, and he felt the tears welling up again as he stared at the silver ring.

"You can blame yourself all you want, but it won't bring her back."

"Just leave me be. I've failed. There's nothing left to do anymore. I never even got to say goodbye."

Rogir sighed. "Sooner or later you need to stand up. Not just for you, but for her as well, and them too." The older man waved his arms out in front of him, gesturing to the army. "More people than you think possible depend on you. They all carry the same feeling of loss."

Valdar felt some life returning to him. Holding back a sob, he somehow made it to his knees.

"If you don't get up now, it was all for nothing. If you don't get up, Valdar, she died for a nothing. If you can't rise above, they can't succeed. If you won't rise, then this pain will remain forever. Her death will be in vain. Don't let that pain shape you. Accept it, and grow stronger for it. Shape that pain into your cause. Mold it, bring it to bear, and shout it out for all to hear. It's your path, Valdar! Stand up!" Rogir held out his hand.

Valdar reached out and grasped it.

Stonetalon Mountains

The flaming wreckage of the last assault was spread around him like flotsam on a beach after an intense storm. Convinced that further assaults were useless, Thrall had ordered the Horde to hunker down since the Warsong's departure. If they could not beat the humans to the peak, then they would starve them out. Numbers wise, he had the humans outnumbered three to one, but their tactics were as always, tenacious. Their mages seemed to be under very good command, popping in and out of the battle and applying pressure exactly where needed.

Another thing that caused further annoyance was that the salient of Alliance forces that had been surrounded earlier in the week had not been destroyed yet. The whole situation was very strange. If the humans had wanted to fight, they would have sallied forth already, but seemed intent on sitting behind their defenses.

"Nazgrel!" Thrall called out. A massively built orc approached riding a shaggy frostwolf. Nazgrel was one of the Frostwolf Clan's greatest trackers and scouts. Since the formation of the New Horde, he'd been placed in control of the Wolfriders.

"Warchief." The subordinate gave an orcish salute.

"What is your report on the east face of the mountain?"

"The humans sent a regiment of dwarves to guard the back door. They've set up at least three batteries of those cannon that they used to tear us apart the first time we attacked. I don't recommend attacking." Nazgrel said with an angry tone.

"I understand. Calm yourself. We'll find a way up." Thrall gazed up at the peak of the mountain. The tips of hastily built fortifications were visible, smoke rising from the campfires atop the peak. He allowed his own agitated spirit to calm.

_Bestow upon me your wisdom, spirits. _

For a minute, Thrall relaxed his body, allowing the comforting feeling of the spirits to fill his world. All became silent as the rest of the world blurred out of sight. Then, suddenly Thrall felt a tugging on the long locks of hair that hung from his head.

Opening his eyes, he noticed a slight gust of wind pointing to the direction of the mountain. The possible explanations ran through his head, and he began to murmur, trying to decipher the answer he had been given. All at once the signs came together.

"The zeppelins." He said with a smile.

_We'll ride those goblin contraptions to the top of the mountain, bypassing all the human defenses. They'll have never seen it coming. We do however need to free the goblins and their balloons. _

When the assault had forced the humans into three camps a few days prior, Thrall had spotted almost a dozen goblin zeppelins deflated and lying unused on the ground. Beside them had been several cages filled with the little green creatures. The humans had been able to hold their ground around the zeppelins, but if they could free the goblins and the flying machines…

"Nazgrel, Kerash, Bonesplint, Ubuer, Vol'jin!" Thrall went through the names as if on a roster. His top commanders appeared quickly. "We will shift our attacks from the peak to the pocket of resistance that lies between Orosh's and Kerash's forces. The objective is the goblins at the base of the mountain. I want them alive, and their zeppelins unspoiled."

"Yes Warchief!" they echoed, and immediately rushed off to complete their objective. For now, Thrall would let his subordinates direct their own battles, with him as the overall intermediate.

The battle began to flare up as soon as the commanders had disappeared. Gathering his own personal guard, Thrall prepared to move into the battle himself. He laughed when he witnessed the humans attempt to reinforce their beleaguered comrades, their attacks down the hill as ineffective as the orcs.

A massive explosion rocked the ground, leaving Thrall to wonder if Vol'jin had conjured some dark spirit or if some dwarven gunpowder had caught fire. Smoke and sand began to swirl about, creating a dark dust storm.

Alongside the Seared-bones ogres, Thrall and his guard rode through the remains of the front line, following the battle as it went. Placing the black helm of Doomhammer atop his head, he must've looked fearsome indeed because as he rode up, a unit of footmen rushing to flank the orcs caught sight of his massive frame and onyx armor and immediately turned tail.

With most of the Horde's pressure now on the human defenses here, the entire area had become a hornets nest. Bullets and arrows were tossed back and forth, thick as snow in a blizzard. A huge smoking crater that marked where the explosion had occurred had dotted around it remains of several humanoids. What exactly they were in life, Thrall couldn't tell.

Suddenly, Thrall and his forces came under fire. A puff of smoke in the distance marked the firing of some of the dwarven harquebusiers approaching. Behind them a wave of infantry rolled forward, overrunning the offensive on left wing.

A huge human encased in thick shining armor jumped out of the smoke with a great mace, bringing it down on top of him. Thrall jerked backward, narrowly missing the strike. The momentum of the weapon's attack continued and smashed straight into the spine of the frostwolf Thrall had been riding. The beast collapsed with a whimper, tossing Thrall aside.

The human who'd swung at him backed away, making it safely to his troops, who stood opposite of the orcish guard. Thrall stood back up, bringing the Doomhammer to bear. He barked an order to charge, and instantly the orcs snapped to the offensive, riding into the human line.

As the fight surrounded them, Thrall ran straight towards the huge human, bringing the Doomhammer over his head. Swinging down, the human sidestepped, pivoted, and came around to smash Thrall on the side of his shoulder pad. The orc grunted as he felt his shoulder partially disconnect.

_He's fast for his size. _

"Filthy orcs! Following us wherever we go, eh? Then I'll teach you a lesson you'll never forget!" the human taunted, half-leaping forwards and backwards in an attempt to goad Thrall to attack.

"Out of my way, human!" Thrall replied in Common, knowing that language before even his own due to his life as a slave and gladiator for the humans. "I have better things to do with my time than play with you."

"Play with me? Hah!" the human lunged, swinging diagonally. As the two passed each other, the devious human fighter pulled out a dagger from beneath his chest plate, sinking it deep into Thrall's thigh.

"Bah!" Thrall plucked the weapon out, ignoring the pain. A splatter of blood dropped to the ground. Before he noticed it however, more and more humans began to flood into their arena. He'd been surrounded. "Come here…" Thrall said with a smile.

He smashed the Doomhammer on the rocky ground, sending a puff of dust up. The outlines of the mauler began to glow a brilliant white. The humans stood their ground, some hesitating and looking towards each other. The weapon in Thrall's hands began to radiate heat from the intense energy it was conjuring.

"Fine, if you won't come to me. Then-" Thrall tossed the Doomhammer into the middle of the formation in front of him. The force of the throw and the circulating power of the weapon created a shockwave that knocked the first few humans out the way, several dozen feet back. The Doomhammer lost momentum after the third row back, being stopped by a man's head which had ended up as bloody mush on the sandy ground. Roaring, Thrall ran forward. Pushing off a staggering footman, he leaped high into the air and landed in the middle of the formation and picked up the Doomhammer.

Hearing a cry, Thrall turned to see the large human bearing down on him. Just then a massive shadow overcastted the fight. A furry hand reached out of the sky and swept aside the human, who rolled over and over, his blue plumed helmet falling off to reveal the white hair of an older warrior. The man spat out a globule of blood as he stretched his limbs to stop the roll.

"What the hell is that?!" The man uttered in complete surprise at the sudden arrival of the gigantic cow-like creatures.

"Ishne alo porah, young warchief!" The shadow spoke. It was Cairne Bloodhoof and his tauren warriors. They'd returned.

"Cairne! What are you doing here?" Thrall said incredulously.

"Our debt to you orcs can only be repaid in blood. We've come to help you reach the Oracle. However those metal clad pinkskins look like trouble.

"Those pinkskins are called humans. They are our enemies from across the sea, and seem quite intent on keeping us from the Oracle." Thrall responded. The tauren were easily routing the already terrified footmen, immersing themselves into the battle.

"Hmm, the Oracle's wisdom belongs to all, but these pinkskins are keeping others from accessing it. I suppose they must be taught a lesson." Thrall rubbed some of the caked dirt from his cheek, still impressed with the sheer strength and nobility of the tauren warriors.

"What have you conjured up this time, orc? More demons?" the tall warrior spoke up once again, now standing. A thin line of blood ran from his mouth and nose. He'd probably lost a few teeth to the backhanded blow. He stood his ground alone, after all his minions had fled.

"Give up, human. The tables have turned." Thrall said, diverting his attention.

"I am Balon Swiftmane, Duke of Hammerfall and scion of the Swiftmane family. I'll not bow to orcs and their pets!" the man grinned, raising his mace above his head.

Sighing, Thrall allowed his body to become a conduit for the spirits and launched a bolt of singing lightning at the man almost instantly.

"Is he dead?" Cairne asked.

"I simply knocked him out. There's no need to kill someone after a battle is decided. That would be giving into the old ways. And besides, he'd probably be more valuable as a prisoner. He is after all nobility. He might have insight into the motivation, size, and strength of the Alliance expedition here." Thrall explained. "And just how did you and your tauren warriors arrive here so quickly?"

"Hah! There are many things you know little of in this land, Warchief. Allow me to educate you." Cairne let out a sharp whistle, and almost immediately over the horizon a several huge flying creatures appeared. They seemed to be a mix between a bird, scorpion, and feline, with wingspans of close to thirty feet.

"These are the wyverns, our old friends. These beings think as well as you and I do, and are not to be tamed. They'd probably kill you if you tried. But if one makes a pact with them, as we did long ago, they bear us to our destination. Perhaps they will aid you as well, young Thrall." Cairne explained.

Thrall watched in awe as the massive beasts swept down from the skies and landed nearby, watching intently as the battle began to wind down.

"Incredible, Cairne. I would very much like to make this pact, but for now I must focus on finishing this fight. The balloons we've fought for are close by, and it seems that our passage will be even more secured now that these wyverns have arrived."

"So be it. Let us finish what you began." Cairne chimed.

"Very well; to battle it is then, and then to the Oracle."

Ashenvale Forest

The battle party had trudged through the woods for hours, making headway through the unfamiliar and dangerous terrain. The trees were tall and little sunlight was able to penetrate the thick canopy. The sounds of birds and other flying creatures echoed accompanied by the occasional rustling of bushes.

Grom had picked his greatest and most trusted Warsong warriors to go with him (those whom had been with him the longest), leaving the rest of the clan to regroup in a central location near the base of the Stonetalon Mountains. Hopefully they would hold out until he returned with whatever salvation Het-xen had promised.

"How much further, troll?" Grom was becoming impatient.

"Past this grouping of trees there be a mesa of rock. There be a steep path up this hill as me troll brothers found, but it be a dangerous one, mon, filled with curses. And Hellscream…I donno' if this power should be used. The closer we get, the more evil it be feelin'. This far and it tingles the blue of my skin." Het-xen spoke, warning creeping into his voice.

"I don't care how evil the power is. We must use it to defeat Cenarius. That is the only thing that matters now." Grom replied, putting an end to the argument before it began.

The party continued undeterred. As they continued closer to the power, Grom began to get an uneasy feeling in his stomach. It had become quiet, and the trees seemed to be silently dying. Leaves were turning brown astonishingly quick and falling off decrepit branches. Animals were running from the source of the power straight past the orcs, as if they weren't even there.

Suddenly, a massive wall of rock shot up into the sky before their eyes. Rocks and loose dirt continued to fall as the orcs regained their footing.

"There's your first obstacle. The mesa. Jinruk, lead us to da path." Het-xen said, and a younger troll appeared from the trees.

"I been watching this area closely now since we entered da' forest. There be some kind of barrier around which activates when ti' senses dat' intruders are near. The rock then flies up like magic. But there be a safe path up the rock on da' other side. Follow." The troll lead the group up the path after they rounded the sharp edge of the strange morphic wall. Three times jets of fire shot up on the way up, but three times the superb troll scout had reacted in time to keep the group safe.

"The traps be different every time." He said.

Nearing the apex, Grom could now see that not only had the wildlife on top of the mesa died completely, it seemed to be pulsating with corrupting and evil now. Disgusting mushrooms which shot off clouds of thick yellow spores covered trees, and tendrils of red fungus ran across the dead humus soil.

"Hellscream…" Het-xen said reproachfully.

"Stay here, troll. My orcs will brave this alone. I need no weakness in my presence." Grom ordered, and left with his force. The group penetrated the corrupted wood even deeper, going about three hundred paces before a dull red glow began to fill up between the decomposing tree trunks. Grom could feel the energy of the raw power that lay just ahead.

"Chieftain, there's a clearing up ahead." An orc spoke.

Sure enough, the trees broke up, and as soon as the orcs passed the threshold they beheld something incredible. An ancient moonwell, one much like the ones that they'd seen on the outskirts of the warrior women's settlements stood in the direct center of an array of circles carved into a flat moonstone floor. In the moonwell itself a red liquid bubbled vigorously, giving of a pungent smell.

Grom approached, his orcs behind him.

"Impossible…" his voice was weak from surprise at the sheer power that he felt. His skin felt like it was on fire, and his body felt reenergized, as if he'd just eaten the heartiest meal and slept the more peaceful sleep in his life. He could also feel the intense hatred and pure emotion that flowed from the bubbling liquid. It was dangerous, he knew at once.

"Chieftain, it feels demonic. It's cursed by demons!" one grunt cried out.

But Grom had already made his decision. "I am cursed already. If must drink from these waters to defeat Cenarius, then I will." He approached the moonwell, body sweating as the intense energy heated up the air around him.

"No! That goes against everything the Warchief teaches us. We can't let rage overcome us again!" Another shouted out.

"No warrior. We must embrace it as never before. We must become the vessels of destruction we were meant to be!" Grom turned back to his warriors, arms outstretched.

Slowly, he turned back to the well. A moment of doubt flickered in his mind. The small voice inside him had returned again. The voice he knew to be his conscious, trying to rebel against the rage of the demon blood that ran, however thin, in his veins.\

Reaching with his hands cupped, Grom brought a sip of the vile water to his lips and drank. It tasted like death itself, and Grom wanted more. He could feel the old fire beginning to burn inside him once more.

"YES!" he cried out. "I feel the power once again. Come my warriors, drink from the dark waters and you will be reborn!"

The warriors stared at Grom intently, watching his transformation as the evil waters crept into the farthest corners of his soul. His eyes had become two flames, burning brightly, and from his mouth emanated a deep green glow.

One warrior, then another, and soon all of them stepped forward to give into their old desires. Energized, they began to shout and howl, stomping on the ground and smashing trees with axes and fists. They could feel the demon curse burning brightly again.

Abruptly, a flash of bright light lit the dark forest up.

"**The demons did their job well. You creatures are as reckless and bloodthirsty as they ever were.**" A rich, earthly voice spoke.

As the flash subsided, a huge fifteen foot tall half-stag half-dark elf stood in its wake. His eyes were like set emeralds, and his body was what could only be described as power and beauty, all in one. The demi-god Cenarius stood before the Warsong orcs and snorted in disgust.

"We orcs are free, demi-god!" Grom shouted back.

"**Ha ha, is that what you tell yourself? How sad. Despite what you believe, you are no better than the malignant bile that flows through your veins.**" Cenarius stretched his arms out and instantly the forest began to grow back. The dead trees revived and new ones grew a thousand times faster than they normally would. Cenarius frowned. It had not completely healed. He could still feel the corruption deep in the ground. "**This forest will not fully heal however, until this taint is removed.**"

"Damn you! I will destroy you with the power I have harvested here, and end this charade once and for all, Cenarius!" Grom felt for his axes, readying himself in a battle stance.

"**You cannot defeat me! I am the heart of the land.**" Cenarius turned to Grom and after a long paused, stepped forward slowly. He then took another step, and another, the earth shaking with each stomp. Then at once, the orc and demi-god charged at each other, power streaming from their bodies.

(Author's note: Hey all, I actually had this chapter on my computer for a while but didn't get around to putting it up till tonight. Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and just remember to review. Reviewing greatly encourages me to spur my writing ahead, even if its criticism. Give me suggestions, ideas, and the lot. I may even throw in some fan-service. Hope to see you all soon.

-Omegatrooper)


	33. Chapter 32: Descent

**Chapter 32: Descent**

Ashenvale

In the midst of the tall, dark trees, Grom Hellscream and his orcish warriors stood before Cenarius, demi-god of Ashenvale. With the powers of chaos energy swirling about him, Grom took a step forward, crushing his hand into a fist and causing the ground beneath his feet to sizzle and sparkle with his pure fury.

Cenarius' body, a cross between elk and the upper half of night elf, stood as stone upon his four muscled legs. An air of serenity and confidence was carried about him, and his body glowed a soothing viridian. Apart from all this, his face was upturned in anger.

"Drink from the fountain my warriors! And become as powerful as me!" Grom yelled out. Under him the leaves blew away and the bare dirt cracked as if under intense weight. Crouching, Grom felt the incredible energy fill his legs. Suddenly, he pushed off and in a blur disappeared from normal sight.

He reappeared instantly in front of Cenarius, swinging forward his axes. Cenarius blocked with blinding speed, catching both of Grom's blades in his right hand. Green magic flowed around the arm, transforming it from the purple flesh of before to a trunk of diamond hard wood.

"**Little demon, you can't harm me. I've defeated countless of your kind." **

"The orcs no longer bow to anyone! We have claimed this power as our own!"

"**It is even more sad when your enclosed minds cannot comprehend the bigger picture. So be it, orc." **Blades of wood suddenly erupted from Cenarius' arm. With his weapons caught, Grom jumped into the air, spiraling around the attack. As if in slow motion, he pivoted, let go on the axes, drew a long orcish scimitar from his belt, and plunged it into the demi-god's hand.

Cenarius recoiled, in surprise more than pain, dropping Grom's axes. "**Impossible!** **You couldn't have done this unless…"** The demi-god plucked the scimitar from his hand sending small spurts of dark purple blood into the air.

"We can harm him with these powers, my warriors! Now quickly! Drink!" Grom commanded. The orcs, shocked, rushed to the fountain and each took a deep gulp. Picking up his axes, Grom noticed the reddish glow from his body meld with the weapon as he held it.

"Incredible. I feel more powerful than EVER!" Grom cackled, jumped at the demi-god again.

The demi-god rushed forward, the ground cracking under his heavy hooves. In his unchanged hand a ball of fluorescent light spiraled into being, bolts of lightning crackling around it. Lowering his hand just before he hit Grom, a torrent of energy rushed out of the arm, smashing into the cliff face several hundred meters behind the two. Barely dodging the attack, Grom could feel the explosion's heat from where he stood. An avalanche of rocks and mud tumbled down the hillside.

Before the orc could react, he felt his legs suddenly constricted against the ground. A triplet of vines thicker than his arms had wrapped around his legs all the way up to his torso.

"**You won't be running this time, orc. The very earth sides with me.**" Cenarius approached, his wooden arm writhing as more and more needle sharp branches emerged from it. One shot out from the demi-god's fingertip, impaling Grom's leg. The orc didn't seem to notice.

"Fuck your earth!" Grom shouted out with a bloodthirsty smile on his face. He let the demon blood boil again, his vision blurring between sight and redness. Just as he was about to lose consciousness, Grom snatched back control of his body, pleased that as he'd expected, the demonic magic that had bubbled up from within had burned its way through the vines.

With the help of the foul waters he'd drunk, he could barely even feel the gaping hole in his leg. It seemed like a minor itch, an annoyance rather than a serious wound. The power…the power was overwhelming. He could barely think compared to just a moment before. Letting go, Grom allowed his body and the taint within it to flow freely again. Thinking just muddled things.

Like a spectator, Grom watched as his body jumped forward, noticing that his orcish grunts were also rushing forward now, joining the battle. The demi-god waved at the trees behind him, and suddenly faces melded together in their bark. Uprooting, the treants clashed violently with the orcs.

"_Grommash." _A voice called whispered.

"_Grommash!" _The voice now shouted.

"_GROMMASH!" _

"_What is it, elder?" the young orc asked, irked. _

"_What did I just tell you?" the craggy faced orc frowned at him. His face was blackened by the shadow of the sun. _

"_That it is the strength of the strongest orcish clans that keeps everyone in line. Without powerful leaders at the heads of the clans, we would end up viciously destroying one another. But, elder…" _

"_What, youngling?" _

"_The orcs are a strong people. The draenei look down on us, but in our hearts we all know that we're more powerful than them, even with their strange majiks. Our shamanism is more than a match for them. We should follow our given paths. The tradition of the Hunts forces us to lesser ourselves to primitives. Divide ourselves into war tribes and clans. After all, what is the Hunt but a simulation of battle?"_

"_Grommash, you couldn't be more wrong. In fact, you sound like a fool." The elder smiled sadly. "There are other younglings who think like you, but in the ancient times our ancestors proved those statements wrong." _

"_What are you talking about, elder?" _

"_The strength of our leaders alone is not what keeps the clans in line. It is the orcish spirit: our nobility and honor. Know this, Grommash; without honor, there is strife. Without nobility there is chaos. Without restraint, even to our basest instincts, there is unending suffering. The ancestors proved it, and I hope that I never live to see the day that we fall back into such pitiful ways." The elder moved out of the sun to reveal a gray haired old orc, face scarred by many a Hunt. His hair was tied in five long braids, strung together by the woven muscle tissue of banthars, the symbols of the Warsong Clan's leader. _

"_Do you understand what I have told you today, Grommash?" _

_There was a momentary silence. "Yes, father." _

That time in the past quickly flashed through Grom's mind, a flitting existence in a world of no borders. It was exactly as father had told him. Without restraint, there was chaos. But the power it brought! The power was enough to throw all those things away. That was why the orcs had never risen to greatness until they'd taken drastic steps to overcome their limits. Even if it was tainted with demonic magic, this power was enough to help protect the orcs. To save them from either Cenarius or the demons! It would work!

Treant and orc grappled in battle, strangling each other's will to fight until one side or the other gave out. The swirl of the fight echoed around Grom. He noticed that his body was bleeding from several wounds.

Barely dodging a sweeping motion by Cenarius' wooden arm, the orc twirled in midair and brought the his remaining axe down on the demi-god's head. Almost! Cenarius motioned his head forward slightly, blocking the attack with his huge antlers. The power with which the axe was swung though cracked the demi-god's antler, sending a piece of it skittering to the floor.

Yelling something in some strange tongue, Cenarius rammed into Grom, breaking several of the greenskin's ribs. Using the momentum of his roll, Grom propped himself back up to his knees, skidding to a halt.

"**How dare you defile something you know nothing of?!" **Cenarius' fist smashed Grom in the side of the face before he could react. The orc flew backwards ten feet, spitting out several molars.

"**First you enter my forest…**" The demi-god stepped forward. He kicked the orc into a tree. "**Then you assault my kin…**" He picked the orc up by the neck, raising him high into the air. "**Until this point, had you shown some kind of reason, we might have reached a truce. But then you showed your true colors and sported that demonic filth in your greed. And that, in this world, is UNFORGIVABLE!**" Cenarius pulled his arm back, the same green energy he'd summoned early forming around it.

The motion of his arm was a blur, but beyond Grom's comprehension, he somehow found the strength to lift his axe. Releasing all the rage, all the pent up energy, the years of holding back the demon curse, combined with the new power, released the pulsating, tainted and morphed axe from one hand while finding a weak point and escaping from the demi-god's grip with the other. With such speed, the axe cut deep into the demi-god's chest, finding its target in his heart.

Usually able to withstand such petty injuries, Cenarius ignored the final attack, narrowly missing Grom's head as the orc wriggled free, absolutely pulverizing the tree behind him. Sawdust, chips of wood and shredded leaf filled the air.

Grom fell to the ground, coughing and hacking. Cenarius looked at him incredulously for a moment, then realizing that the axe had penetrated his heart, plucked it from his body. He knew then that he'd made his faux pas. The demonic curse that Grom had held in his body had tainted the axe itself, making it a carrier for the miasma.

The black energy suddenly ran through Cenarius' body, causing the demi-god to fall to his four knees, letting a wordless cry of pain out. Grom stood up, wobbling, and moved forward, smiling viciously. His own body was covered in wounds. He was bleeding from a hundred slashes, punctures, and avulsions.

"**Don't think you've won, demon spawn.**" Cenarius managed to say. "**This body may fail because of your curse—but do not take my people so lightly. The Night Elves will rise up and crush you. Though I may die once, the Emerald Dream will bear me to this place again. Your victory…is…a temporary one." **The stag-elf dropped to the floor face first. His body suddenly burst into a multitude of autumn leaves, leaving no trace but his broken antler behind.

"Hah. HAH! The demi-god has fallen. The Warsong is SUPREME!!" Grom screamed out at the top of his lungs. The treants that survived the fight began to crumble, and Grom's remaining warriors gathered around him, the fire of the demons bathed in their eyes.

The earth began to shake. The sound of crashing trees and terrified birds filled the air. The screams of the trolls whom Grom had left behind pierced his ears, causing all the orcs to turn toward the sound. Suddenly, the trees parted with thunderous cracks, and in their midst stood a beast of muscle and flesh, twenty feet tall. Green flame of a different, more evil kind, burned in its eyes and gullet.

"**Hello again, Grommash**." The gigantic monster's voice sent vibrations through the chieftain's spine.

"Mannaroth…it c-can't be." Grom suddenly felt the exhaustion of his battle overcome him. His knees buckled.

"**I have come to bring you and your brethren back into the fold. Though the orcs failed the Burning Legion before, you will now serve us once again**!" The demon commanded.

"No! We are free!" Grom heard is voice weakening. It was feeble, pathetic. The moment he'd drank the waters, he knew there would be consequences, but he'd let them melt into the background of his mind. His memories of Thrall and all his hard work to free the orcs, their camaraderie, pulsed in his brain.

The pit lord broke into laughter. "**Stupid, pitiful creature. I am the rage in your heart. I am the fury of your thoughts. I alone empowered you to bring chaos to this world, and by the endless void, you shall**!"

Grom's world suddenly crashed down. The evil in his blood, tainting his every thought, compelled him against his greatest will to bow down to the Legion's lord.

Stonetalon Hills

"This is it!" Thrall shouted out.

The goblin balloons were soaring into the air, filled with hot air from furnaces kept alive by his shamans. Arrows were whizzing by, grazing the boat-like structures that hung below the massive balloons. Eleven of the behemoths were rising into the air like unstoppable birds, too far gone to be shot down.

"Warchief, we're nearing the summit." Nazgrel pointed out, yawning to pop his ears from the pressure difference. The temperature had also fallen dramatically over the past few minutes.

"Good, good!" Thrall said exuberantly. The sensation of flying was incredible; to see the world slip away into tiny, incomprehensible details, then blurring all together. This must be what it was like for the spirits leaving their bodies.

"The human entrenchments reach all the way to the summit, so we will have a fight when we touch down." Nazgrel said, gesturing towards the cliff-side path. On it, members of the Alliance's expedition were looking at the rising armada of air balloons with bulging eyes. They'd been taken by complete surprise.

"I will not let _anything, _let alone these _humans _stop me." Thrall replied, stone hearted.

"The caverns will be a perfect place for them to ambush you, young Warchief." Cairne said, stepping away from the edge of the balloon.

"I was raised by humans, Cairne. I know their tricks better than anyone. It won't stop us from getting to the Oracle, and besides, we have you."

"I indeed know of the caverns, and may be able to help you navigate them somewhat, but bear in mind Warchief that I have never once stepped foot in the Oracle's sacred lair." The gruff tauren admitted.

"That's fine. We've got more of an advantage than the humans in this case anyway. It will be alright." Thrall smiled reassuringly. The tension in the air seemed to slacken, if only for a moment.

Suddenly a gust of wind blew off from the mountain. It was the plateau where the entrance to the caverns was located. A base camp of human and dwarvish troops stared at them incredulously for a moment before yelling and lining up for battle.

"Now, TO THE ORACLE MY WARRIORS!" Thrall shouted out.

Some balloons descended to float mere feet above the ground whilst others expelled thick hempen ropes that orcs and trolls and tauren rappelled down. Shamans on the balloons provided support as the Horde's troops found some semblance of organization and charged.

Though disorganized, the Horde had taken the Alliance forces by surprise and smashed through an opening, leaving a gap straight towards the huge, cavernous mouth of the cave.

"In there, Warchief!" Cairne shouted out, pushing aside two footmen.

"Let's go." Thrall replied, signaling to eight of his Kor'kron elite to follow.

Rushing forward, the wave of orcs swept past the humans, encountering a single elven mage near the mouth of the cave.

"Lady Jaina ordered that none of you filthy animals be allowed to delve these deeps, and I will obey her command." The elf bellowed, twirling his staff and smashing it into the ground. A shockwave of rocks drug up from the ground exploded outwards, one of them smashing Thrall in the gut and sending him backwards.

"For Quel'thalas!" the elf dashed forward with surprising speed, firing bolts of lightning from each of his finger tips. The lightning took the shapes of birds, soaring and growing until the smashed into an orc each, frying the flesh all over their bodies.

"Get out the way!" Thrall flipped to his feet, smashing the legs of the elven mage with the massive Doomhammer. With a cry, the elf fell to the floor, the bones in his legs pulverized.

"Damnit—even if you do find Lady Jaina…she'll defeat you! She's a hundred times stronger than me! You're going to your deaths!" the elf cried out. His voice however was already getting thinner.

Thrall took the first few steps into the cavern. It was a massive entrance, at least thirty feet high by twice as wide. Torches had been thrown on the ground or propped against the wall to make a path leading back.

"Warchief, as I said before. I know not this terrain well." Cairne walked to his side.

"There is no turning back now. I must know my people's destiny, Cairne."

"As you say, Warchief. Let us go."

Together, along with the remaining Kor'kron, they entered deep into the gullet of the cave.

Lair of the Excubitores

Cyrus felt the power of the Old God in his system, roiling and eager to take his body. It was hard to keep at bay, but thanks to the brand he'd been given before he was sent on the mission, he was able to keep its power at check.

The brand, a runic figure that he'd never before seen, was an initiation rite into the Excubitores as well as a tool. It still burned, even though it had been forged in his flesh days ago.

_It had been several days since he'd been told of the truth, of the legend of the Excubitores. Still pondering, Cyrus had been returned to his room. He found it difficult to accept everything that the Proprietor had told him. Some of it was too fantastic, and others to horrifying. But he'd agreed to join them. They had immediately thrown him back in his cell however, to 'contemplate the truth'. _

Only as long as it takes. There are still too many unknowns. And the answer to saving what's left of my people may lie with this mysterious fraternity.

_The door to his cell suddenly shot open. In the doorway stood the Proprietor. _

"_Your final test has come." He announced. Behind him a huge human appeared, holding a white hot brand in his hand. _

"_What?" Cyrus suddenly felt on edge. _

"_It is a ceremony that will induct you into the Excubitores. You will be branded with a magical rod which will allow any one of us to sense your location, and vice versa. The Brand also amplifies your attunement to the Ley-lines, allowing you to access the flow of magic easier." _

So they intend to watch me. Watch all of us.

_"And if I say no to this brand?" He tested the waters. _

_"That is unacceptable." The Proprietor inched closer. _

_"I have heard that magical runes branded on the flesh are nigh a death sentence. To literally infuse magic into one's body…" Cyrus knew he was on a precipice. He could either try to escape, or allow the ceremony to continue unimpeded. _

_"Indeed, the art of rune branding is one that has taken thousands of years to perfect, but unlike anywhere else in the world, the Excubitores have achieved this impossible pinnacle. Taking the brand will cause you excruciating pain. We let the same laws of causality that brought you to us choose your path. If you survive it, then your power will increase greatly. Die, or reject the brand, and your path will be cast from ours forever. To become one with magic is ascension. It marks you as one of us, and in doing so, your individuality will join our consciousness."_

Just what is he getting at? I have no choice in this at all!

_"Indeed, for all things have been predetermined." The Proprietor said with closed eyes. _

_"So you can read into my mind?" Cyrus said, unsurprised. _

_"I could, if I needed to. But it is evident on your face that you are apprehensive." _

"If he can read me so easily…" Cyrus muttered to himself.

"Initiate, move with haste!" his superior called out. There were three of them. His Immediate was Alon Guyas, a muscled old human who claimed to have been borne to the world by the swirling magics of the Nether itself. Cyrus was not used to working under human orders, especially since Arthas' betrayal, but he'd acknowledged Alon's prowess and wisdom. The Under-prelate was a strange being named Saqquel, whose body was wrapped in white linens. She claimed to be from a land far, far to the east of Lordaeron.

Cyrus picked up the pace. He could feel the brand bubbling blood as it did whenever he neared the grand junction of Ley energies. It was nearly unbearable the first few nights, being so near to the Old God. He'd bled constantly, but it had grown better with time. The Proprietor had told him that when his body accepted the brand, it would simply itch.

Moving through the purple lit halls, the three Excubitores made their way into the main chamber. Atop a huge pedestal stood the Proprietor, wreathed in his black robes as if a shadow.

"Children, gather round." The Proprietor said, his face hidden under his hood. He seemed to be in a deep trance anyhow. "I have located it; the Legion's arch-demon. It is possible that this is the very one that destroyed Dalaran."

"My Lord, is it time?" Alon asked reverently. All of the Excubitores spoke with so much respect to the Proprietor, yet he had treated Cyrus so casually when they'd first met. What did that mean?

"Indeed it is. We'll make our move." He replied. Saqquel make a strange humming noise in her language.

"So it begins." Alon said a smile on his face.

"Excuse me. If I may, what are we talking about here?" Cyrus interjected, confused.

The Proprietor lifted his hood to reveal his face. The pointed ears of an elf stood out from beneath a mass of gray hair, and burn marks scarred the side of his face. He smiled.

"The beginning of the end of the Burning Legion. The securing of Azeroth." He said.

Hillsbrad Foothills

The Hillsbrad Foothills lay rolled out like a lumpy green carpet in front of him. Small copses of trees dotted the landscape, and fences separated the various farms from one another.

It was very much a peaceful place. The war had not yet visited this place. In the distance to the north, roiling off the mountains were dark clouds; spring storms. They would soon be here, unleashing their torrential tempests on the land.

Valdar Justax rode with a group of horsemen, three flags flying above them. One was the patchwork Dogs of War flag, another representing the Sixth Army, and the last, the Alliance of Lordaeron.

Beside him rode Rogir Helmsworth, Valdar's second, Thorek Ghent, the old time friend and master of the Missives information network that had been set up through Ghent's many contacts from before the war, and Casper Valus, a one time member of the Cult of the Damned who had turned coat and provided much needed information on the Scourge and Burning Legion as well as magical support. Along with those three rode several more staff officers, trusted men and women whom had proven themselves capable commanders. The quartermaster, Aachen Rose, the corps commanders Titus Hancock, and master engineer Albrecht Cabell. Last but not least was the 'personal guardian' that his fellows had insisted on him having. She was a brash, young woman by the name of Osra. She'd cropped her hair and was apparently one of the best sword hands in the army, having helped her brother whom had been a blacksmith before the war practice before he'd entered as a regular. She'd thus far been annoyingly overprotective.

Up ahead, camped in a stretch of farmland, was a throng of several thousand men. Hundreds of tents had been erected, and campfires burned in the early morning air sending the smell of smoke and charred meat towards the approaching envoys.

"Which one do you think it is?" Rogir asked.

"We should probably follow the smell. The best scented bacon is probably the place." Ghent joked.

"Look for the biggest tent you can find." Valdar said, stone-faced.

The group continued to ride into the great camp, passing pickets and sleepy guardsmen. A simple glance at the riders showed that they were probably the best news in weeks, so many of the soldiers whom had begun to stir simply left them alone. A few shouted questions. Who are you? Where did you come from? What army are you with? Valdar and his men ignored them, and rode on towards the cavernous crimson tent that lay in the middle of the camp grounds.

When they arrived at the command tent, the commanders of the Dogs of War dismounted and handed off the reins of their horses to several valets that were waiting nearby with another batch of horses.

Together they walked in, Valdar at the head. Pushing aside the flaps of the tent, they entered into the war room. There stood half dozen men around a huge map of Lordaeron, who squinted as the bright light from outside flooded in for a moment.

"Who the hell are you?" one said, offended.

"Commander Colonel Valdar Justax, formerly 33rd Cavalry Regiment, 6th Army. I'm in charge of the Dogs of War."

"The what?" Another general scratched his head.

"I've heard of them. A force formed outside the authority of the Alliance, mostly made up of conscripts and old 6th Army members." A red-bearded, smug looking man spoke up.

"Them? They're just rabble. I thought they were a rumor." The first said.

"I can assure you, we're no rabble. We've met the Scourge four times in major battle across the Alteran Pass and checked them each time. We even struck at their heart at Corrin's Crossing." Valdar replied. "I seek to join my forces with yours to fight the Scourge."

"Your dogs aren't even a registered, paroled military force." Yet another high ranking officer stated, his gilded gold armor shimmering in the candlelight.

"That's right. You can't just barge in here assuming that we'll take you in so easily. Besides…I've heard unsavory things about these Dogs of War. Apparently they've enrolled women, and you, Justax, are but a minor noble from some backwater county. How dare you insist on attaining the level of those who have the blood of the leaders of the past flowing in their veins?" the red bearded man said again.

"Sires, the Dogs of War have a viable combat record. And whether or not they're officially a part of the Alliance shouldn't matter to us now. It can be sorted out later. You know the predicament we're in…" someone said, stepping out of the red bearded man's shadow. Valdar could see that he carried a dignified, noble air about him. His clothin was ordinary, and the only thing that distinguished his rank was the single golden eagle pip embroidered into his vest.

"Brigadier Praeton has a point." The last one agreed. He stood at the head of the table and spoke with a rough voice. "The Scourge has moved from northern Lordaeron and blasted all our defenses to bits on the way. The 7th Army was soundly defeated at Perres last week, and they were one of our last untouched reserves. Isn't that right, Thorr?"

A final man sat in the corner of the tent by himself, arms folded with an angry look on his face. "Yes that's right, and there was nothing I could've done. More demons rained from the sky than droplets in a Kul Tiras squall that day."

Valdar felt anger flare up inside him. The 7th Army had been the one that was supposed to be protecting the Alliance's heartland where Castle Perres was located. Easing his fury at Ellena's death, Valdar unclenched his fists.

"Very well then, allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain General Newt Tallheart, of the 11th Army."

Valdar suddenly realized the man's elaborate armor. Scroll patchwork was cut deep into his plate which shone with gray-silver brilliance. In the each of the ancient languages of men he had cut the names of each battle he had ever been through and won. The armor was covered in words. Valdar suddenly felt like a gnome compared to the man towering in front of him.

Lord Tallheart was one of Lordaeron's modern day heroes, a warrior whom had fought in the both the First and Second Wars, leading the spearheads that broke through many of the enemy's tightest defenses. In front of him, the young knight realized, was a true hero: one whom had fought with righteousness, defended the people of all civilizations with equality, and done deeds more glorious than he could ever hope to accomplish. One of the original promoters of an alliance between all the peoples of the continent against the Horde, he'd commanded the 11th Army since the formation of the Alliance Military Forces and honed them to become one of the most ultimate fighting force the Alliance had.

"It is an honor." Valdar said, feeling his gusto blown away. He hadn't been expecting to meet such a man here.

Smiling, Tallheart continued. "The one to your right is Field Marshal Georges Penwright of the 1st Army." He pointed to the red-bearded man whom grunted with disapproval of Valdar's presence. "Behind him is one of his adjuncts and second, Brigadier General Anduin Praeton of Stormwind. He's been with us since the beginning of this war." He had been the one whom had come to Valdar's aid earlier.

"The one in the golden armor is Captain General Alain Serath, 4th Army, Defender of the Eastern Marches." Serath nodded to Valdar, accepting. "This man here is General Crane Cramore, of Stromgarde's relief force."

"-Only until Prince Sirael returns to command. He's been missing since our fight affront the Violet Citadel." The man was worn, and that was easy to see. Valdar had heard of the disastrous turn of events in the battle of Dalaran a month earlier.

"The last is Lord General Thorr Steelhewer, 7th Army." Tallheart finished, making his way back over to the map.

"Welcome to our great offensive." Steelhewer said pessimistically, some of his words slightly slurred.

"The situation can be put into two words: exponentially worse. I'm sure you know that since King Terenas' — unfortunate death, the Scourge offensives have gone on almost unopposed. Word goes around that it's because we were consolidating our forces over winter, but it's not true. We barely have any forces to consolidate at all." Tallheart announced.

"Allow me to continue, sir." Anduin Praeton spoke up. Unraveling a map atop the teak table, Praeton placed several blue colored blocks on the map. "It's been a month since the emergency rally point communiqués were sent out."

"The outcome is as you see here. The 1st Army is severely undermanned, having split to send men with Prince Arthas' ill fortuned expedition. The 4th is spread out across Lordaeron, with half its men attempting to break the siege at Tyr's Hand and the other half here. Lord Steelhewer's force was ravaged during the battles in the Dornland Corridor, leaving the only untouched force here the 11th. With the reinforcements from Stromgarde, we can muster some fifty thousand odd swords and lances. We're short on magical support, but we'll have to make due."

"What about the self proclaimed Grand Marshal Garithos? I thought he had nearly thirty thousand men under his banner." Valdar stated, looking at Wallaceburg on the map. "He should be able to gather a good deal more men from the city he's garrisoning."

There was an awkward silence.

"Grand Marshal Garithos moved out of Wallaceburg in the past few weeks, and the undead rushed into the gap he left. The entire city was razed. Tyr's Hand is now the most populated metropolis in Lordaeron." Praeton said solemnly.

Valdar felt his heart in his throat. Tyr's Hand had never been a very big city. It was almost as if a small beacon of civilization in the untamed southeast of the country. To hear that it was now the largest remaining population center was disheartening.

"But that's not our main concern. When the greater whole of the demons left mysteriously, the Scourge and remaining devils regrouped almost wholly into one force."

"A god damn juggernaut more like!" Steelhewer spat. He sounded almost drunk. "They tore through my men like they were air. Oh no, it's not the skeletons or flaming blasted demons that did it…" Valdar noticed that the general was cradling his arm in a blanket.

"If we had proof of your insane claims, Thorr, maybe we could take them into account." Penwright said angrily.

"I saw the beast with my own two eyes! Its form is like a man, almost princely. But then before you can comprehend, the very fires of hell emerge from his gullet. His power was beyond reckoning. A damn impossibility!" Steelhewer shot up out of his chair, the blanket around his arm falling to reveal a missing limb. The stump was black as coal and burned to a crisp.

"Enough!" Tallheart's voice rang out through the canvas. "Lord Praeton, continue."

"This force that shattered the 7th Army has passed into the Hillsbrad Foothills, several leagues from here. Last we heard, they had crushed the outer defenses of Stromgarde. It seems they're moving towards the Arathi Highlands, possibly towards Strom or the Thandol Span to cut off our incoming relief from Stormwind."

"We _must _stop them! I will not stand by as my countrymen die on their own soil." The stromgardian Camore insisted.

"Valdar, as a newcomer to our table and having plunged into the heart of the undead lands, what do you suggest be our course of action? I'd like to hear some fresh ideas." Tallheart spoke.

The knight unsheathed a knight from his bootstrap, marched up to the map, and cut a line through the paper. "As I see it from a strategic viewpoint, our best bet would be to defend Thoradin's Wall. It's a massive structure created by superior Arathi construction and enchanted with as many defensive spells as Dalaran's walls."

"My sentiments exactly." Tallheart agreed.

"So we are to race the Scourge to Thoradin's Wall? And what if they beat us?" Serath ended his silence.

"Then, we might not live to see the year's end." General Tallheart said, grimly.

The Great Hunt of the Ancient Orcs

Nearly five thousand years ago, the primal orcish clans began to come into existence. None of the Founder clans still exist, but their legacy pervades throughout orcish history even unto the present day. Establishing the first clan system and balance of power, the orcs evolved into their present forms and culture.

The clans however fought against one another every so often, but each and every one shared a deep connection with nature and revered their ancestors. This connection is what led to the shaman in orcish society.

One day, an orc leader known as Hutrul Tooth-bearer brought the clan leaders together and established the Great Hunt, where the greatest orc hunters of all clans would join together and under a series of weeks attempt to hunt the most vicious and dangerous animals they could find. They returned the ferocious animals bodies and ate them with their people, using their massive bones as trophies and heirlooms.

The Hunt brought together many of the clans, and helped to diffuse ideas amongst the different societies of the orcs. This eventually led to the great religious gatherings around Oshu'gun in the Nagrand savannah, the Kosh'harg.

The Hunt was continually held every ten years, as a way of measuring the capacity and strength of each clan's warriors and prowess, in a way helping to maintain the balance of power between the orcs.

When the demonic controlled Horde arose however, Gul'dan, under the strict order of Kil'jaeden abolished the Hunt. Thrall, Warchief of the New Horde, hopes that one day once his people have found their home that he can reinstate the ancient tradition.

**End of Act V**


	34. Chapter 33: Prelude to War

**Act VI**

**Chapter 33: Prelude to War**

Eastern Hillsbrad Hills

Valdar gazed at the endless hills of Hillsbrad. The armies of the Alliance had placed themselves straight in the path of the Scourge upon the King's Road. It was ironic, how the main artery of trade and commerce in days gone by had become the main path of the Scourge's invasion of the south. To the left was Southshore, resolute and untouched by the conflict. Further on was Hillsbrad itself, but that town was already bypassed by the undead. It seemed they were intent on making their way to Stromgarde.

And here they would fight…

"What ye be thinkin', sir?" Thorek Ghent's drawling accent echoed from behind him.

"This land is beautiful." Valdar said softly. A slight wind picked up; rustling the leaves of a tree he'd taken cover under.

"Aye…"

"I was told by a couple of soldiers from the 11th that there was it was a single arch-demon that destroyed Perres." Valdar said, picking a leaf from the tree.

"Perhaps it was. Maybe it was just they're minds running amuck with panic. A battle lost can be a terrifying thing. You and I know that, Valdar."

"I don't think so. Not this time. There are still reports from scouts that a single demon of unimaginable power is amongst the Scourge."

"That thing destroyed Perres. It killed Ellena." He murmured.

"Valdar…"

_If it's the last thing I do, I will kill that nameless beast. I will tear its head off with my hands._ Valdar crushed the leaf in his hand, discarding it. _No, I can't ignore this. I'm taking this anger, and this emptiness, and making it my own cause. I've lost my brothers, my love, and probably my father, Thorek. I know I'm not the only one who's lost someone, but Light help me if I ignore this. I'm in the place to make a difference, and by the Light I will_.

There weren't any more tears for Ellena, or his brothers left. They'd left with the parts of his soul he'd lost when they'd died. The vacuum that remained beckoned to be filled, and the only way he knew how was this…

"Lord Justax, its time. They've come." His guardswoman, Osra, called out. She immediately set to fastening his mount's harness.

"Good. I couldn't think of a better time. Now come, Thorek. Let's see this demon's mettle firsthand."

Walking up to the generals, Valdar could already see the situation was bad by the looks on their faces. It made him smile however, to see the pompous Field Marshal Penwright in a fret.

"Valdar, you're here. Good. The undead have made their first move against us here, at Durnhold Junction. There's now no doubt they mean to invade Stromgarde." General Tallheart announced, pointing out the gathering of little brown lines on a map.

"If the undead make it to Stromgarde my people will fight them with all the conviction our ancestors of the Arathi Empire." The Stromgardian Cramore said, pounding his mailed fists together.

"We're strung out still from the march, and they've hit sooner than anticipated. We don't want a full out engagement yet, so we need a force that will hold them off until our forces have pulled back sufficiently." Serath explained.

"Your Dogs of War are the most consolidated force, and thus you will be our rearguard line until our main body reaches the Thoradin's Wall." Tallheart ordered.

Penwright snorted. "I don't think a hedge knight can hold the line against an undead force of that magnitude. It's suicide."

"You can't talk to Lord Justax like that!" Osra cried out in protest. Valdar was just as irked by Osra's overprotective remarks and infuriated by Penwright's downright arrogance.

Just as Valdar was about to jab back, the enormous Tallheart stepped in between the two. "The field will be yours. Prove your worth to those who don't believe in it, Justax. Lordaeron is all but lost, and we're not about to let another nation fall as well!"

"Yes sir!" Valdar saluted and snapped around. The Dogs had been taking a rest from the long march nearby, and were roused up. They passed by the ruins of Durnhold, whose crumbling cells had once held thousands of orcs interned until the upstart Thrall had freed them.

For another day his forces screened the rear of the Alliance army, fending off undead raids and sorties. With two picket lines and a fume of scouts out ahead as well as all of the Missive agents out in the field, Valdar could enjoy a good deal of information. Unlike expected however, the undead did not attack in full force. Valdar believed that they must've been building their force to meet the Alliance head on in battle. If they did so, it would be a massive fight. The largest he'd ever been in at least. There would be over fifty thousand Alliance soldiers, plus another thirty thousand from Stromgarde who were being funneled to Thoradin's Wall in preparation for an invasion. From what Valdar had heard from scouts as well as the horror story's from the 11th Army, he was beginning to have some doubts.

By sundown, the Alliance had approached and encamped by Thoradin's Wall. On the horizon, thick spring storm clouds glowed orange, purple, and pink, growing and bubbling closer.

"There's going to be a storm soon." Tallheart said, walking up behind Valdar as he watched the last of his men file into position. The Wall had appeared behind some hills, huge just like the story's Valdar had heard.

In the ancient days of the Arathi Empire, King Thoradin had ordered a great wall be erected to protect against the resurgent trolls of the central lowlands and forests. The Wall had taken three generations to build, but was perhaps the greatest fortification ever built by human hands. It stretched seven miles between the Aerie Mountain Ranges and the Banelock Highlands, completely closing off the small pass between Lordaeron and Stromgarde. It was a hundred and twenty feet tall at the lowest point, and forty feet thick at its skinniest. Huge turrets and towers protruded every hundred yards, and there was a massive central cullis gate that weighted by itself over thirty tons. Inside, there was a vast honeycombed network of tunnels, barracks, cafeterias, training grounds, and more; everything and more a castle needed.

The Wall however had been neglected for two thousand years before the Second War, which had led to great decay at some parts of it. One portion had collapsed entirely, leaving vulnerable its inside tunnels and halls. The castle in its center had fallen into grave disrepair, and was further damaged by the orc invasions fifteen years ago.

Atop the Wall, behind, and before it, Stromgarde's armed forces were already preparing for the conflict. They'd positioned ballistae, catapults, and other artillery pieces, even some leased dwarven cannon, atop the Wall. In front of it, the Alliance had filtered into prepared campsites. The ground had been dug up into trenches, and spiked barriers had been erected from the northern tree line beyond sight.

"This defensive position isn't as strong as everyone thinks, but it's the best thing we've got before they get into Stromgarde. The least we can do is slow them down until the reinforcements from Stormwind arrive. This could very well be the greatest battle since Blackrock Spire."

"Aye."

"You'll take the northern base, with the Aerie Mountains as your flank. I want you stay your position at all costs. Behind you are the gap in the Wall, so if you let up, the entire front collapses."

"Can we hold, sir?" Valdar asked. He was surprised by the sincerity in his voice. He'd been alone and in command of himself for a long time. He wasn't used to relying on others.

"I hope." Tallheart said simply. The two watched in silence the unfolding undead army's torches as the sun disappeared. In the distance, deep thunder bellowed hatefully. The Scourge and Alliance forces were face to face, and the first one to blink, would lose the momentum.

Stonetalon Caverns

"The path cuts off in different directions." Cairne Bloodhoof remarked. True to his word, the cave cut out in two.

"Either of those caverns could stretch for miles. We should split up to cover more ground." Thrall replied, squinting in the dim light.

"How classic." An orc murmured in the background.

"Good luck, young Warchief."

"And to you, my new friend."

The sounds of fighting outside had begun to subside, but no one had dared enter the caverns yet. Torches, recently lit probably from the Alliance soldiers whom had come in here before them, lined the wall and ground.

The two forces diverged, Cairne and his tauren, Thrall and his orcs. In the ever-stretching caverns, the light seemed to play tricks with the eyes of the mortals whom walked in the shadow of the ancients.

Cairne was reverent throughout the journey. Long ago, in the time of the Earth Mother, it was said that one of her progeny had taken up this great place as its abode and cut out these caves with its own hands. The Oracle, as the Earth Mother's child became known as, had remained deep in these caves, separated from the rest of the world by the dangerous depths and the Spirit Bridge, a mystical highway that bridged the innermost realm of the Oracle with these caves.

Indeed, this was a holy place, but that did not mean it was safe. More than once the tauren had run into packs of roving kobolds. The stinking creatures had no respect for the earth, painfully drilling and digging holes in the precious world for petty minerals. They were sickening to even imagine, but unless they outright threatened the tauren, Cairne and his tribe had always left them alone, practicing the tenets of tolerance.

The cave had opened up into a wide area, with strange mushrooms the size of trees growing near one side. A thunderlizard had somehow found its way deep into the Oracle's cave, and was chomping away at the mushrooms contently, ignoring the tauren as they passed by, feeling at the wall for an exit. Several times they'd encountered great cave paintings, though the creatures in it Cairne recognized not, nor the script. Some depicted great ocean vessels and others a huge tree, and yet more showed lines of strange purple clad beings fighting against monsters.

After a while, Cairne had lost track of time. He wondered if it was day or night in the world outside. "How wonderful it must be for those who dwell in the earth, to be closer to perfection and without the need for light to live." He said out loud, voice echoing off the long walls. His best warriors, Azok and Jeddek, whom he'd previously sent with the Warchief to help guide him to Stonetalon, nodded. They'd returned to his command when he'd come to the orcs' aide.

"Htat uz stha?!" Strange, high pitched voices suddenly barked out.

Cairne instinctively hunkered down, lowering his torch. Bright light blinded him for a moment, but as his eyes adjusted, he recognized several pinkskins.

_They must be part of the expedition that came down here. _

Slowly, the tauren positioned themselves around the floundering pinkskins. They'd set up some kind of rigid wooden table, and stacks of very thin skins with strange pictures on them were scattered about, along with a tome and some swords and shiny coins.

"For the Earth Mother!" Cairne cried out, suddenly popping out from behind a boulder. His tauren did the same, and rushed towards the pinkskin defilers.

"Tu haaalns!" the alpha pinkskin shouted out, picking up one of the swords and charging at the nearest tauren. The four of his comrades suddenly rushed forward as well, brandishing metal weapons. In an instant however, the huge and powerful tauren huntsmen had cut them to ribbons, sending bloody chunks flying about the cave.

As the sounds subsided, Jeddek noticed vibrations in the dirt. Putting his ear to the ground, he felt around for a moment.

"Something has heard us." He whispered, bringing his totem to bear.

"What is it?" Cairne replied, hushing his voice. His hearing had long since dimmed to the point where he could no longer read the earth like he used to.

"It's big." Jeddek replied. Azok dropped to the ground to recheck and nodded in agreement.

"Prepare yourselves." Cairne said.

The noise grew audible quickly, even for Cairne's old ears. At first, it was like a rushing river, and then a crumbling rockslide, and then a stampede. All at once, the tauren heard a squealing noise and knew exactly what was coming.

"QUILLBOARS!"

Dozens, perhaps hundreds of quillboars poured out from the back of the cave. The tauren jumped into combat, moving with more agility and speed than one would think possible of such bulky creatures.

The quillboars swarmed around them, bypassing them in droves, with only a few stopping to attack the tauren. Jeddek was pierced by a quill through the meat of his arm, though shrugged off the injury and continued to swing his totem.

And then as soon as the quillboars had appeared, they disappeared.

"Most strange. Quillboars are usually the friends of our people. Some of them attacked us, and none offered aide." Azok muttered, confused.

"Ish al borel, Azok. This place is filled with mysteries." Cairne replied, moving on.

Following the footprints of the quillboars, the tauren found their way out of the humungous chasm into another series of tunnels. After some long minutes, the tunnels cave way again to a large chamber. The sounds of the quillboars were rampant. The tauren quickly came upon the edge of a cliff, and Cairne threw his torch into the pit.

It quickly illuminated the bottom, revealing that hundreds of quillboars had gathered around. In the middle of the writhing mass of spines was a shining blue gem, clear as crystal, yet exuding brilliance beyond anything that Cairne had ever seen.

"These quillboars must be protecting that gemstone. They probably thought we were kobolds, trying to steal their treasure." A tauren said.

"Indeed so. And the putschkam injured me." Jeddek said, cradling his wounded arm. "Where is Azok?" Cairne looked around, noticing that the other tauren had suddenly disappeared.

Suddenly, what seemed like a thousand spikes shot up from the floor of the pit where the quillboars were, sending the gore of dozens into the air. The bloody spikes retracted slowly, revealing the horrendous mess they'd left behind.

"A gruesome death. There was a lever in the shadows, and its reflection caught my eye when we stumbled into this cave." Azok's voice emerged from the darkness, a smile plastered on his face. The tauren descended the pathway into the pit, leaving Jeddek behind to make sure no one pulled the trap on _them. _

Upon reaching the bottom of the pit, Cairne picked up the gem, finding its slick surface hard to grip. "The gemstone has an inscription on its base." He noticed. "This is the Spirit Stone of Stonetalon Chasm. If legends are true, this will activate the Spirit Bridge which will lead to the Oracle! Now we must find young Thrall and locate the Spirit Bridge."

And so the band of tauren disappeared into the darkness of the cave, wandering for their forlorn goal.

Stonetalon Caverns

Thrall and his elite stumbled through the darkness like children. Humiliated, Thrall called upon the spirits to grant him fire. Selfish an act as it was, they permitted his indulgence this one time, giving him a fire that lit the extinguished human torches they'd found earlier.

There had been bands of humans guarding special entrances, but they'd gone a long time without seeing any now. Traps were left behind though, so they were definitely going the right way, though Thrall desperately wished he had brought with him his island trolls. They would have made all the difference in this ill fortuned endeavor.

Progressing, the coldness of the cavern began to fade, being replaced with stifling heat. Trotting along, the orcs made a sharp turn to the right and found themselves face to face with a small troop of footmen.

"Orcs! Kill them!" their leader shouted, instantly recognizing his enemy.

Thrall simply called upon the earth spirits, upturning his arms and crunching his hands into fists. The power of the shaman flowed through his body and out of his fingertips, and the cavern in front of them chomped down like a bite, squashing the humans to a messy paste except for the leader, whom had made it just far enough to not be engulfed in the quick spell.

Looking behind him, the human saw that his comrades had been dispatched with ease and knew that he had no chance. "Smart orc…" he muttered as Thrall's underlings tied him up. Clearing the dirt and rock away, the cavern was once again opened.

A gate barred the way of the orcs, and upon it strange runes glowed golden. It was the work of a wizard, and a human wizard at that.

"Stand back. It will explode if you go near it." Thrall announced. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he summoned the spirits of two ancient wolves, who rushed at the trap and sacrificed their brief corporeal lives to clear the obstacle. As the massive explosion subsided, a throng of humans rushed out of the cavern. Along with the panicked, wide eyes humans who paid no heed to the orcs, intense heat also flowed from the next room.

"Let's get the hell out of here!" "Run!" "Light save me!"

"You! What's in there!?" Thrall demanded, grabbing one of the humans by its neck.

"Monsters! They're fighting one another, and with such power! The Lady was able to hold it at bay, but it broke out of our restraints!" Thrall let the human run off with his cowardly comrades. Great roaring and screeching noises emanated from beyond the gate. Slowly making their way forward, the orcs passed out of the tunnel and into a huge chasm. A gruesome visage appeared before them. Skeletons, some still bloody and with fleshy giblets hanging from their bones, were scattered about the floor.

_I thought this place was supposed to be holy. _

In the air, a huge dragon and several harpies circled around each other. A river of magma bisected the room, and lit the battleground. The dragon bore shimmering scales of the Black Flight. Both sides struck at each other with vicious talons, one breathing dragonfire that was hotter than the magma below, and the others tossing stones and hurtling crude javelins.

"A dragon!" An orc cried out.

"Let those beasts kill themselves. We'll take this treasure for ourselves!" Thrall said in a quiet tone, trying not to attract the attention of the raging heavens.

Trying to seem as out of the way as possible, the orcs snuck past the battle and grabbed a handful of loot each, stuffing it in purses and jerky bags that hung off their belts.

One item caught Thrall's attention more than the others. An amulet, seemingly made of soft jade which bent and curved like cloth or links of metal, and at its end a blue stone that seemed to glow from within. Packing the amulet away, Thrall and his orcs continued, making their way past the battlefield in the skies without attracting the attention of either the dragon or the scores of harpies that harried it.

At the end of the chamber there was another gate. As Thrall neared however, he felt warmth from the amulet that he'd packed only moments ago. The gate seemed to react to the gem, and creaked open to reveal a square room with a large, corrupted bronze statue of some kind of elf woman riding a giant lion or tiger.

"**I am Azune, ancient princess of the Moon Children. None may pass this river of fate until my heart is returned to me.**" A soothing voice came from within the statue. The magma river ran through this room as well, cutting it off from the other side; the only other route possible.

"Solving this mystery will allow us to pass. But what does she mean by her heart?" Thrall pondered out loud.

For almost an hour Thrall and the orcs attempted to solve Azune's riddle, though with no success. Not even the amulet would garner further response from the statue. Just as Thrall was about to order his orcs to backtrack however, a section of the wall near the back of the room came toppling down. From the dust came a dozen tauren; Cairne's group had arrived.

"Young Warchief, it is good to see you once again. I had feared that we might be lost in this place forever, but it seems that the Earth Mother is indeed looking out for us."

"Good to see you again as well Cairne. We have some problems however. We cannot get solve this statue's question, and thus cannot pass."

Cairne and his tauren neared, but as soon as Cairne strode near the statue, a bright light emerged from a stone that the tauren held in his hand. It was similar to the one on the amulet that he carried, the orc noticed.

"What?" Cairne looked down in surprise.

"That must be it! Cairne, you've done it!" Thrall exclaimed. Taking the gem from Cairne, Thrall climbed onto the statue and placed the gem upon the breast of the statue. "Here is your heart, Azune. Now, grant us passage to the Oracle!" Above the magma river between the two islands of land, sparks began to gather from the air and coalesce into a solid surface.

"A spectral bridge…" Thrall murmured. He'd only heard of such a technique from Kirin Tor wizards, and even then, they spoke of it only in theory.

"Ah! This is it! The Spirit Bridge, just as the legends described it! The path to the Oracle is revealed!" Cairne said, joy in his voice. The legends had been true after all.

The band threw some stones onto the bridge at first, just to make sure it was safe, and then continued onwards, passing over the red hot magma via the ghostly bridge. As they did however, the sight of several dozen humans was what met them, and not an all-knowing Oracle.

At their head was a robed woman with glossy blonde hair. Turning, her face a scowl, she uttered "Orcs…I knew we were being followed! Defend yourselves!" She brought what seemed to be some kind of staff from within her robe out and aimed it at the orcs, taking a low stance and holding her other hand above its crystalline top. The other humans all unsheathed their weapons and prepared for combat.

"STOP! There will be _no _violence in this place." A familiar voice shouted out. The humans gave berth to a crooked figure, and wearing a tattered brown cloth. Upon his shoulders were pauldrons covered in black raven feathers. At once Thrall recognized him.

"You're no Oracle! You're the Prophet!" Thrall exclaimed.

"Very perceptive Son of Durotan, I am the Prophet. And now that I've lured you all here, I will tell you what destiny holds." The Prophet was hunched over on his quarterstaff. Moving between the humans and the orcs, he seemed to give off an air of utter wisdom. That annoyed Thrall.

"What the HELL is going on here?!" he yelled angrily.

"Thrall, this is Jaina Proudmoore. Leader of the Survivors of Lordaeron." The Prophet introduced the young sorceress, pointing her out with his staff.

Nothing made sense to Thrall. Why was the Prophet here? What were these humans doing talking to him? Had this all been a trap? Should he not have trusted a human after all?

"Survivors? What are you blabbering about?"

"The invasion of the Burning Legion has begun. Lordaeron has already fallen, and now the demons come to invade Kalimdor. Only together, united against the shadow, will you be able to save this world from the flame." The Prophet held up his hands, and images of ruin and destruction ran through Thrall's mind like he was seeing them through his own eyes.

"Unite with them, are you mad?!" Jaina's voice broke a little.

"Why should I join with these bastards who tried to enslave my people?" Thrall asked in the human tongue, trying to provoke a fight. He could feel his blood boiling just by being near these humans.

"Don't make me laugh! You orcs killed my brother and nearly drove us to extinction! You deserved to be slain, not enslaved!" Jaina shot back.

"Have you heard NOTHING that I've said? The Legion comes to undo history and end all life. Thrall, your friend Hellscream has already fallen under the demon's influence. Soon, he and your whole race will be lost forever." The Prophet's face was now red with anger.

"No…Grom is stronger than that. I've known him for years…" Thrall already knew that his argument was lost though. "I'll die before I let the orcs fall under the Legion again."

"Then you must rescue him immediately. I have foreseen that he is the key to the destiny I promised you. However, you will need help."

"Wait-this is just insane. You can't possibly expect us to ally with the _or_—"

"Destiny is at hand, young sorceress. The time to choose has come. For the fate of all who yet live, humanity must join forces with the Horde."

_(Hey all. I know not too much happened this chapter, but it's all in the sake of buildup. As you can see, the fight for Thoradin's Wall is about to erupt, as is the fight to save Grom and the Warsong from themselves. _

_I'm going to try and update two, possibly three more times this month, seeing as how most of my midterms are now over, but I can't guarantee that. Anyhow, the last section of the story will begin soon, so I hope you're all looking forward to the finale. I have some awesome things planned out, and hope that you'll enjoy the climax of this story as much as I have in writing it._

_Till next time,_

_Omegatrooper) _


	35. Chapter 34: Precipice

**Chapter 34: Precipice**

_The Combined Alliance-Stromgarde Forces prepare for the inevitable battle with the Scourge and their demon allies. Knowing that they had to delay the Scourge as long as possible to be reinforced by the massive Stormwind armada on the way as well as the newly declared entry of the Ironforge and Aerie Peak dwarves into the war, they set for the greatest fight since the end of the Second War. _

_The 4th Army took the far left wing, in front of the Avalon Hills. Their cavalry was be spread on the edge of the formations, poised to counter any flanking maneuvers or in turn flank the enemy._

_Tallheart's 11th Army would hold the center, in front of Trollbane Castle. Arranging his men so that shock troops would go in the front, followed by heavy infantry and cavalry to sweep up behind, the strong 11th Army was best suited to bear the brunt of the enemy attacks, absorbing them so that the smaller, more maneuverable forces could influence the tide of battle. _

_The Dogs of War were on the right, wedged between the base of the Hinter Mountains and the 11th Army. On their right flank was a detachment of light horsemen armed with bows and further on a battalion of soldiers from the 7th Army as well their respective cavalry screens. _

_In the mountains behind this force, nearly two thirds of the Stromgardian forces lay in wait. These troops, used to mountainous fighting would sweep down and back up the Dogs of War when they attacked, or rush to the rear if a breakthrough was acquired. The rest of the Stromgardians, nearly ten thousand, would man Thoradin's Wall. _

_Behind the Wall, a reserve force consisting mostly of the 7th Army, whose ravaged regiments were still recovering, would wait until they were needed. _

_All the while, the undead Scourge, hundreds of thousands strong, marched from the North West. In the midst of their swarm was Haures, one of the Legion Lords. The battle would soon be joined. _

_On the other side of the world, the Legion's arrival is felt first in the central plains and north central mountains of the continent. Having arrived, the Burning Legion summons further reinforcements through a series of portals that lead back to the Twisting Nether. _

_Thrall, along with Jaina Proudmoore in a strange new alliance, heads towards the northern steppes of Kalimdor where the Legion is staging. There the corrupted Warsong Clan threatens to resubmit all orcdom to the Legion's curse again. United against the Legion, the Alliance survivors and the Horde ready themselves for the fight ahead. _

Kalimdor, Barrens-Ashenvale Border, Three Days Later

_Just a while longer Grom. We are coming. _Thrall's thoughts continued to swirl around Hellscream and the destiny of the orcs. Anger, lament, dread, and doubt swamped his mind. Nothing made sense anymore.

At his side there were their new allies, the tauren, and the Alliance survivors. It was inconceivable. Each time he turned a corner to see a human, dwarf, or elf, his body and reflexes screamed out to him to attack.

"If the Prophet was correct, then the Warsong encampment lies just over the ridge. We should ready ourselves for battle." Cairne spoke up, ending the awkward silence that had descended as he, Thrall, and Jaina Proudmoore had traversed the dusty terrain of the Barrens together. At their backs was the combined Horde and Alliance force, ready to charge at a moments notice.

"I know Cairne. Its just I never thought I'd live to see the day when I had to fight my own people, least of all Grommash."

"Remember Thrall, if you can capture Grom and return him to this Circle of Power, then the priests and I can attempt to free him from the demons control. While you go out with the strike team, I can remain here and with our military commanders conduct a screening operation for you."

"I—appreciate your help, Proudmoore. Yet another day I never thought I'd live to see." Thrall searched for the appropriate words.

Jaina looked equally uncomfortable. "That makes two of us. I'll return to the commanders and aid as best I can. Good luck…uh…gentlemen."

Thrall could feel the tension in the air ease as Proudmoore walked off. Cairne turned and studied him for a moment.

"The spirits rage around you, young Warchief. They sense your anguish, your grief." The tauren leader said.

The two started off toward their assembled strike force. While the rest of the Horde and Alliance forces were making diversionary attacks, this group, made up mostly of trolls and tauren, would make their way deep into the Warsong's encampment and capture Grom.

"Hellscream is like a brother to me Cairne, but he and his clan, are under the demon's influence. If I can't save him, then my people might be damned for all time. What has to be done will be done."

Saying it with finality, to convince both Cairne and himself, Thrall shut his mouth afterwards. Now there was nothing to do but try and accomplish what he'd just stated. No pretty talk, no speeches, and certainly no boasting would save Grom, or even reassure himself.

As the sounds of fighting started in the east and west, the group, a hundred strong, began their advance. They would use the deft and agile trolls to scout out in a advanced screen. With them was the trolls leader, Vol'jin the Witch Doctor. Vol'jin would use special elixirs and shadowy hexes to incapacitate any Warsongs that tried to stop them or raise an alarm. It was strictly a hit and raid mission. They didn't want the entire clan to descend upon them.

Moving forward, the group encountered their first knot of Warsong warriors wandering about what looked to be a battlefield between the centaur and orcs. The sight was gruesome and bloody, all the centaur bodies being skinned. The orcs, with strange, darkly pigmented flesh, had wrapped the innards of the centaur about themselves like some kind of strange festive trophy.

Disgusted, Thrall charged, cutting down two of the Warsong warriors before they even knew what was going on. In an instant, his backup had arrived. Two dozen tauren and trolls jumped from behind a small copse of scraggly trees and fell upon the Warsong. The melee was short but vicious, though Thrall's team had prevailed.

The land crested downward into an empty riverbed, long dried in the heat of the Barrens. Skeletons of the long dead creatures of Kalimdor dotted the area, and just beyond the main Warsong camp lay. The scene looked strangely familiar. Thrall couldn't place his finger on it however. Perhaps it was the landscape? A sense of nostalgia swept through him.

_The sands of time have run out, son of Durotan. _

Making their way past what seemed to be the main Warsong camp, Thrall and his forces couldn't make out Grom at all. The orc seemed to be oddly missing from the battle. Knowing Grom, he would never miss out on an opportunity such as this…unless he'd already been killed.

From the east, a cry went up. It was distinctly human. There were no orc voices to be heard. A huge force, mostly human footmen, appeared over the opposite ridge of the riverbed. Their banners hung limp in the windless air, the blazing sun beating down and reflecting off their armor.

_The cries of war echo upon the winds. _

"So the Proudmoore girl is separating the Horde and Alliance troops. A prudent idea. They would probably be easily mixed up in the confusion of battle." Thrall thought out loud.

Not too far, and just opposite of the human army, another force, this one streaming outwards from the Warsong camp, gathered. Catapults, grunts, and even orcs on tamed kodos emerged from the Warsong base, lining up like a mirror image to their human foe.

_The remnants of the past scar the land, which is besieged once again by conflict._

A single human emerged from his lines, dressed in Lordaeron white and blue. Thrall recognized him as the same warrior that he and Cairne had defeated and captured before the final battle of Stonetalon. The prisoners had been released when Jaina and Thrall had come together in their strange union. The human unsheathed a blade and held it high in the sky, shimmering.

_Heroes arise to challenge fate and lead their brethren to battle. _

Suddenly the two sides began charging. Thousands rushed toward each other, the two inevitably heading toward the center of the dried up riverbed. Something was definitely strange here. Thrall felt the air begin to foul even before the two forces clashed. Looking to the skies, he could see the clouds begin to swirl violently.

"Warchief!" cries erupted from his troop.

"That not be good, mon." Vol'jin announced.

_As mortal armies rush blindly towards their doom, the Burning Shadow comes to consume us all! _A raven, which had just been attempting to peck at seeds in the riverbed, flew up into the sky, terrified by the oncoming armies. A cloud of black feathers was left in its wake.

"This is no natural storm. Blessed Ancestors!" Thrall cried out.

The armies clashed, and as they did so, the sky itself seemed to tear and boil. Clouds suddenly erupted out of nowhere, and gusts of wind blew gouts of hot air.

It was JUST like the vision he'd had before any of this had happened. The prophecy had come true. Comets, dozens, no hundreds of them, plummeted from the tears in the sky as the two armies melded into one another.

The comets crashed into the ground, exploding. Walls of dirt and flame were sent out on impact, and if any mortals were unlucky enough to be caught were thrown far and wide. Emerging from the craters, giant, infernal beings began to rampage through not only the human army, but that of the Warsong as well.

The only thing was that in the vision, he'd been in the midst of the orc army. These were the Warsong, and he was not in their army. Had fate been changed by the Prophet's instruction? Or was this battle forever destined?

Instead of himself, Thrall spotted Grom standing in the midst of the orcs running past him. The orc, his eyes burning red with the blood haze, surveyed the scene with satisfaction.

From the tears, two huge, winged beasts descended and landed on either side of Grom. Instead of defending himself, and instead of the doomguard attacking him, the trio simply stood and killed any orc running the wrong way.

"GROM!" Thrall yelled at the top of his lungs, voice hoarse. The orc didn't even bat an eyelash. "Damn him!" Thrall took off, running with full force into the swirl of the battle. Around him, human fought orc, elf fought demon, and the sky rained fire.

"You are the human's lapdog! We serve only the Legion now! Only the STRONG!" a Warsong orc appeared before him. Beside the orc, a creature that seemed to be made of shadows emerged.

"Out of my way!" Thrall brandished the Doomhammer.

"I don't listen to the weak. Only the strong!" the orc screamed, bashing a staff she held in his right hand on the ground. It suddenly filled with green light, and lashed out at Thrall. As the shadowy bolt rushed toward Thrall, he held up the Doomhammer which absorbed the blow, though Thrall was knocked back several feet.

"KHELUM! You…you're a warlock!" Thrall cursed, dodging the blows of the shadowy beast.

The orc, visibly suffering from the effects of chaos magic, being skinny and pale, laughed in a high pitched voice. "It is finally the time of the demons! This is the feeling we have all been missing, the itch that we couldn't scratch all these years under your foolish reign. The orcs will be powerful with the Legion! More powerful than ever!"

Before the orc warlock could finish, Cairne appeared at his side. The massive tauren kicked at the shadow creature, sending it reeling. "GO WARCHIEF! I will handle this!"

"Thank you, Cairne." Thrall dashed off, toward Grom. The sky, which had only minutes before been healthy and orange in the sunset, had dulled to an eerie, foreboding green. More and more tears opened in the sky, unleashing torrents of demons.

"GROM HELLSCREAM!" Thrall cried out. In his hand, the weapon of Orgrim Doomhammer glowed white, empowered fully for the first time in years. Thrall jumped into the air, turned parallel to the ground, and crashed feet first into the doomguard nearest to Grom. With the power of the fully charged Doomhammer, the demon was sent flying backwards into its comrade, his flaming sword impaling his ally.

"Grom, you've got to come with me!" he said, finally reaching the orc whom he'd called brother.

Grom slowly turned to face him, unveiling a face filled with bloodlust. His very eyes, which had once shown compassion and strength, were pools of hatred and darkness. The unnatural demonic curse poured forth from his every orface upon his face, a malevolent crimson flame.

"And where would you lead me, boy? Destiny is at hand. Lord Mannaroth is our master now!" Grom replied, waving at the skies.

Thrall suddenly heard nothing but the rushing blood in his ears. He must've been mistaken.

"Who? Your not talking sense."

"Ah Thrall, heh, heh. You always believed that the demons corrupted our race, but that's only half true. Mannaroth, one of the Lords of the Legion, offered us power. Greater power than had ever been known in history: power to defeat the ogres, to destroy the draenei, power to cross between worlds and conquer endlessly! We gave ourselves up _willingly_ on Draenor. The other chieftains and I, we DRANK Mannaroth's blood, Thrall. We brought this curse upon ourselves!" Grom's expression broke into what seemed to be glee.

"You did this…to our people…_knowingly?!_ RAAAAAAGH!" the orc gave a fearsome battle cry and barreled toward the one he'd once called brother.

4th Army Picket Lines

Running. Breathing.

Fear. Horror.

Airril Corc knew nothing but those four things. In the dead of night the Undead Scourge had come. The shadows playing off their deformed, mutilated bodies from the torches only served to make their gruesome visages even worse.

They'd killed his six friends indiscriminately. Waking from the screams of his fellows, he'd picked up his sword and shot out of the rags he used as covers for the cold nights.

He wished as soon as he had though, that he'd just remained asleep. He woke to the images of his friends torn to shreds, their body parts strewn across the little camp. Some of them, though horribly maimed, were still alive. One, Brotal, was being slowly chewed from the legs up by a bloodcurdling, stitched abomination. Brotal had cried for help, tears mixing with blood as the monster bit through his abdomen. He'd stood there in absolute terror, unable to think.

And then, his mind snapped one thought at him. Run. And so Airril ran. Through thorn bushes, an icy river, and sounds of dying comrades, Airril ran. Tears poured from his eyes, but he knew that if at least he could warn his comrades at the Wall, he might not have simply let his friends die in vain.

He ran up a hill, and on the top he'd seen in the glinting moonlight tens of thousands, no hundreds of thousands, of bodies, filing through the land together. Among their ranks were great demons, some with fire erupting from their bodies. The skies seemed to move as well, huge winged monstrosities and gargoyles together, all heading toward the same place.

Suddenly, a howl more chilling than anything he'd ever heard in his life pierced the air near him. He stopped dead in his tracks. Something was moving in the darkness of the night ahead of him. The grass was crunching.

"Stay back! I'm warning you!" Airril waved the torch at whatever was in front of him. He then heard the noise from behind as well, then to both side of him, and then all around. The same hideous figures that had killed his friends began to show themselves in the dim light of the torch. He was surrounded.

Dropping the flaming stick and his sword, Airril felt his pants warn with urine. He fell to the ground and began to sob. The last thing he heard was the quick shriek that came from his bloodied throat.

Thoradin's Wall, Lordaeron-Stromgarde Border, Early Morning

"Sire Justax!" a voice whispered loudly. "Sire! Wake up!"

"Wh-what?" Valdar rolled over groggily. His throat was dry, and his head already hurt.

"It's time sir! The fight's about to begin!" Valdar recognized Osra's voice.

"It's not like I got any sleep." Valdar slurred, eyes suddenly flying open. He fumbled for his sword and armor.

"Sorry sir, I thought you might want some rest. You haven't gotten any in a while. You've been so busy with everythin—"

"It doesn't matter now. Help me get my armor on. We need to go now!" Putting his feet on the floor, Valdar spun out of the hammock he'd been assigned. Osra lit a candle and helped him into his armor. Then, the two went outside quickly. Already up were Thorek Ghent, standing beside Casper Valus and Rogir Helmsworth.

_Did nobody care to include me in this battle? _

"Morning sir." Ghent snapped a salute. Valdar, angry, stepped into the crowd.

"We thought you could do with an extra few minutes of sleep, sir. It's been a long march from the Alteran Pass and you haven't gotten much rest at all." Valus said.

"What's the situation?"

Rogir stepped up. "The Scourge blocked the roads through the mountains a few hours ago. Now we're cut off from the north. Not thirty minutes ago, the outermost picket lines for General Serath went silent. They are coming."

"Those poor bastards on the picket line were nothing but sacrificial pieces to let us know when they were coming, eh?" Valdar said sadly.

Valdar looked out into the distance. Upon the wall the five stood, staring out at the encampment below that stretched out beyond sight a hundred and thirty feet below them. Moonlight and torchlight shimmered off weapons and armor, mixing to create millions of little stars of white and orange.

Over the horizon, new stars began to rise and emerge.

Thoradin's Wall, Three Hours Later

As a red sun broke over the horizon, it revealed a sight more overpowering than anything Valdar had ever witnessed. Over half of the visible lands from his towering position, were covered with the army of the undead. From east to west, north to south, the undead Scourge and Burning Legion's combined army commanded the land.

Soldiers had been preparing for battle for almost an hour now, those few that were actually able to sleep having been woken. Below, Valdar could audibly hear the gasps of the men of the combined 1st, 4th, 7th, 11th and Stromgarde armies, as well as the Dogs of War.

Valdar turned to see the look his comrades faces. Ghent simply stared out at the horizon, and Rogir took a long swig of alcohol from his canteen. Casper Valus muttered something under his breath that sounded like "Oh shit", and Osra nearly dropped Valdar's flag-staff as she caught a glimpse of what lay before them.

"Let's go!" Valdar announced. The group descended down a long staircase off the back side of the Wall, where below their mounts awaited. Belgor had been fed and well rested, though even he felt the electric air. As Valdar mounted the black mare, neighed and nearly threw Valdar off.

They rode out the monstrously large main gate together, and off toward the north eastern corner of the field where the Dogs had been positioned. Orders and encouraging speeches were heard everywhere on the battlefield. Pale-faced soldiers, men and women, looked around nervously. Thousands of pikes protruded into the air, armor clinked, and the sounds of deep, trepid breathing abounded.

Valdar couldn't think about anything right now but the immediate objective: get to his army, and give the orders. The final High Command meeting had taken place last night, at the turn of the days. The orders were in place, the battle plan set. But no plan survived contact with the enemy, Valdar knew, so he would have to use his own cunning and tactics, as well as rely on his men, and helpful commanders, to run the battle smoothly, reacting to every movement, and countering in the most vulnerable spot. They would have to read the battle like water, waiting for the right moment to catch the fish when it least expected it.

The information had it that indeed, the 7th Army's nightmarish tales of the arch-demon were true. He'd been spotted several times in the midst of the Scourge's forces, surrounded by dreadlords and infernals. Tallheart had given the order that if the chance presented itself, to immediately terminate the arch-demon. He'd given especially high priority to the mages for this order, even telling them that if the smallest chance was available, that they pull themselves off support duties and pursue the destruction of the monster that was likely leading this army.

Valdar looked up at the sky. The clouds that had formed yesterday were almost upon them, and would soon block out the sun. They were no longer colorful, beautiful looking objects. Now they were a wall of black, ominously moving toward them. Behind, Valdar could see that they would bring rain. Already he could feel cooler wind of the advanced gust front inching up.

Before he noticed it, Valdar and his staff, under the flag of the Dogs of War that Osra held, arrived at their respective army. Squeezing through the ranks, they made their way to the front. It was time to make the final speech to his troops, just as another hundred commanders were making to their men.

"Excuse us Father." Ghent spoke to a priest whom had been kneeling in front of the army saying a prayer. The man nodded and moved.

"Casper." Valdar said.

"Of course." The mage replied, making some seals in the air with his finger. Instantly, Valdar's voice was projected fifty times its usual sound.

"Men and women of the Dogs of War!" he began. "This vast organism that we call humanity is on a precipice. The world is a different place than a year ago, and to that past we will never return. The Scourge has conquered Lordaeron, and seeks to destroy its remnant. There have been those that have run, like Jaina Proudmoore and her followers, and others who stood their ground and died, like Uther the Lightbringer."

"This might seem like a lost battle to some of you, but to me…I see it as the first rays of light, the dawn of a new age. We will be the ones to move mountains. We will be the ones to part seas. _We_ will be the ones that define the human spirit. We few, you, me, your brothers and sisters that stand next to you, are the vanguard of a new era!"

"We may find ourselves beaten, pursued, and cornered, as have our allies and friends. But I say that a cornered beast is the most dangerous one!" Valdar Justax struck a fist up in the air. For a moment there was pure silence, and then the most thunderous roar Valdar had ever heard in his life erupted. Looking upon the cheering faces of those who led him, Valdar felt tears grow in his eyes. Red faced, giddy, and proud, the knight rode back and forth down the first line.

"Let's show them that they can't take our light!" he shouted out. Ten thousand voices responded in unison. Beside the Dogs of War, soldiers from the other armies watched in awe as their comrades shouted out in the midst of such gloom. Slowly, one by one, they found their voices as well. In moments, all Thoradin's Wall was trembling with the battle cries of over 80,000 souls.

The first Scourge wave began to race forward into the heart of the noise: packs of slavering ghouls and lumbering zombies, thundering abominations, rolling obsidian statues, wailing banshees, wraiths, and specters, chanting necromancers, plotting liches, and a thousand other types, all came forward.

More than 14,000 came forward front the Scourge. The ground rumbled as their procession of death rang closer.

Valdar moved back into his own lines, and listened as his the officers of the armies gave the orders. "Ready, string, aim, FIRE!" Thousands of missiles, from javelins to arrows to ballistae bolts mounted atop Thoradin's Wall blew forward.

The line of undead nearly collapsed. The skull and swords banners of the Scourge fell to the ground. At least a third of the rushing attackers dropped as the volley rained upon them. A second volley, even more deadly than the first, further cut their numbers due to increased accuracy. By the time the wave reached the lines of the Alliance, there were too few undead to even faze them. Cutting down what little had actually reached them the soldiers of the Alliance raised their flags and cheered.

As the cheers subsided however, the sounds of drums banging in the distance began to overtake it. The inhuman moans and yells of the undead emerged as their next battle forces lined up for the attack, this time three fold stronger than before.

"That was just to test our strength." Valdar said to the staff that surrounded him. "This begins now. Good luck to all of you, and may we meet when this is over."

Ghent and Helmsworth gave him salutes and went off to their own posts. Casper gave him a thanking nod, and left to the aid the coordinated mage forces. Osra gave him a smile, and held up his flag a little higher.

The Battle of Thoradin's Wall had begun.

Kalimdor

Thrall threw himself at Grom with all his might. Holding nothing back now, Thrall could only hear Grom's words echo in his mind. "_We gave ourselves up willingly!" _

Swinging wildly back and forth, the duo moved uphill, toward a spire of rock ten feet tall that stood as a barrier to the current of orcs and demons flowing around it. Screaming in the ecstasy of his power, Grom forced Thrall's back toward the rock face with blows that could barely be seen. Able just to block, Thrall felt dismay creep into his heart.

_We gave ourselves up willingly!_

_As mortal armies rush blindly towards their doom, the Burning Shadow comes to consume us all!_

_You must rally the Horde, and lead your people to their destiny!_

Had he failed? He'd led the Horde thousands of miles into the unknown, and in a land where they'd hoped to find salvation there was only war waiting for them. His people were suffering the same fate here as they had in Lordaeron. Even Grom had fallen. Guilt soared in Thrall.

With the power of the demons on his side, Grom had the upper hand. Unrestricted in power, unbounded by feelings, and with an unending supply of energy, Grom blasted forward, his axes chipping at the stone behind Thrall.

His arms numb, Thrall felt the cold stone suddenly press up against his armored back. He couldn't move back anymore. And that was his answer. He couldn't move back; not one step.

_A leader will make decisions that influence the world beyond themselves. There is no telling what repercussions await in the darkness that is our world. Just know Thrall, that you cannot step back. Stay firm, and stay your course. Just as your father once told me, you must build your actions off of your back, your past. There is no failure if you continue to the end. Never stop. Never relent. Keep going, and free our people. Do what I could not! _The words of Orgrim came to him, and all at that moment he knew exactly what had to be done. He knew that no matter what, that he was chosen to lead the Horde. It had been promised that Kalimdor would hold a new home for them, but if that was not the case, then he would make it that way. He would forge the destiny of the orcs.

As Grom swung down again, Thrall suddenly moved forward and reached up, catching Grom by the wrist. He squeezed tightly, feeling the other orc's joint dislocate. With all the fibers of his being, he spun around, pivoting off of Grom's leg with his own, pinning the orc to the wall. Unable to feel pain, Grom struck back with his other axe. The blade cut into Thrall's shoulder pauldron, leaving a gushing wound in his shoulder. Backing away, Thrall smashed the Doomhammer on the ground. The power of the weapon cracked the ground, splitting it all the way up to Grom who stood nearly ten feet away.

Thrall's eyes burned white with the power of the spirits, as did the Doomhammer. Wide eyed, Grom barely dodged as in an instant Thrall bolted forward and struck the rock behind the corrupted orc. The spire, all ten feet of it, suddenly exploded into pebbles and pulverized dust. The shockwave rippled into Grom, sending him flying into the air and crashing back down to the ground unconscious.

Swinging his prodigal friend over his shoulders, Thrall started back toward Jaina's base in the middle of a battle turned massacre.

Thoradin's Wall

_The Scourge had brought up its main body, which included in it several vampiric dreadlords and dozens of infernals. They first struck at the far right wing of the Alliance forces, crashing into the erected defenses of the 7th Army's mobile detachment. Wheeling into the fight, cavalry from three armies that had been positioned in secretive hiding places by Stromgardians who knew the territory well, countered, forcing a gap in the Scourge's lines. _

_Holding amidst incredible pressure, the 11th Army felt its first actual combat of the war. Hundreds were overrun as the Scourge inexorably pushed its way toward the wall. Units formed schiltroms and squares in an attempt to save themselves from the encircling enemy. _

_Losses among the 7th Army were high however, and the gap couldn't be exploited. Immediately, the Scourge pounded on them again, this time with the cavalry unready to do battle. Gargoyles swooped down from the sky, and a contingent of mages attempted to use spells of binding and ice to bring the beasts down. _

_Sensing that the time was right, Valdar Justax of the Dogs of War advanced with his main body. General Serath, of the 4th Army did the same, and in a moment of decisive action, two new massive fronts had opened up. _

"Into that hole! Go!" Valdar's sword pointed toward the enemy. A phalanx of skeletal warriors was quickly overtaken by billmen, with their shorter and more versatile halberds which easily cut the ends off of the long pikes. Cavalry, at least two hundred horsemen, rushed into the gap in the enemy lines where a necromancer had been reviving the freshly slain. The effect was instantaneous: the Scourge lines began to fall into the panic they usually did when they lost direction from their summoner.

"Push the advantage!"

Hundreds of men rushed over the piles of dead, advancing through recently churned up mud and the broken remains of wooden palisades. The sky was now black with rain, and the wind had become cold and dense.

A gargoyle, hit miraculously by a ballistae bolt, plummeted to the ground, crushing a man beneath its stony body. Suddenly, a huge clap of thunder erupted. This time it wasn't from the mages. Without sparing a look above, fat drops of rain began to fall.

The mages, led by Casper Valus, used the storm's electrical current and updraft to add the natural lightning to their own spells, intensifying them a hundred fold. In return, lichs and other elemental magic adepts in the Scourge used the water from the storm clouds and rain to supercool them into sharp rods of ice among other deadly tools. A storm of magic occurred above and the fight of mortals below.

Valdar noticed that though he was making headway, the left flank of his army was nearly bare. That must've meant that the 11th was being held back. A multitude of runners began gathering around him, forcing him to stay back from the line he was commanding.

"Sir, General Helmsworth requests further orders. Advanced objective position achieved!"

"Colonel Harrys of the 18th Heavy' wishes to be relieved. His force is fought out sir!"

"The Rosewood Levies are initiating the right swing. We will stop at the base of the hills and hold position pending further orders."

"What are we to do with the wounded, sire?"

"Bills to the front. I want Rogir Helmsworth's troops to keep us from overextending! Stabilize line! 6th and 19th Regimental Sword redirect your push to the south-west. Stop when you cannot go any further! We'll trap the undead forward element in a pocket." Valdar yelled out. Though tedious, the constant stream of orders and reports made for much more streamlined and fluid motions for the army. "Bring up the reserve. We'll commit them to the south-west offensive. We're going to gamble everything on this. And you! Tell the 7th's force to pull back toward our starting position so they can cover the hole in the Wall."

_If the 11th Army falls so quickly, then we're not going to be able to hold out. Come on Sir Tallheart…_

The tactical prowess of the young knight began to show, and within minutes the Dogs had enveloped the greater portion of the Scourge's massive offensive in the center of the line. The 11th Army took the time bought for them to reorganize and crush the pocket of undead, moving forward. The Scourge's main body pulled back to reorganize, permitting a brief lull in the battle.

Grinning, Valdar waved to General Tallheart who saluted in thanks riding by with columns of his troops a few hundred yards away. The euphoria of the victory didn't last long though.

The rain had made the ground at the base of the mountains one massive mud puddle a foot deep, as it was draining all the runoff. This made it difficult from the 7th's detachment to fill in the Dogs of War's previous position, leaving their tail vulnerable.

A virtual wall of undead minions rushed forward. The soldiers of the Dogs, taken by the unawares, were suddenly swept up from behind. Hundreds began to route; running for the safety of the Wall only to find that they're rearguard had been overrun as well.

Valdar rushed to the new flare up, and found that his troops in a state of confusion and panic. Leaving the main battle up to Helmsworth, he took personal command of the reserve and rushed into the fight. He also requested that the trebuchets atop the Wall cease their firing at the enticing targets right below them, as his forces were about to engage.

With up to a tenth of the Dogs force at his back, Valdar led his men into the possibly fatal lapse. Cursing himself for not thinking of the torrential rain and its possible outcome on the battle, Valdar jumped into a frenzy, cutting down foes too and fro, knowing that the death of dozens of his men had been on account of his foolish error.

As Valdar decapitated yet another zombie, a shadow suddenly appeared behind him. A slavering ghoul with a rusted blade slashed at him. Barely able to dodge in time, Valdar received a deep gash that ran from eyebrow to cheek, missing, he hoped, the eyeball. His helmet flew off into the chaos of battle. With blood obscuring his vision, Valdar slashed blindly at the assailant. Annoyingly, whether by death from another fighter or being caught up somewhere else, the ghoul disappeared.

Valdar was pushed from behind and fell into the mud. Soiled and bloody, the knight searched for his dropped sword which had been pushed into the muck underfoot all the fighters around him.

"FROSTWYRMS!" someone suddenly shouted.

"Not good…" Valdar heard himself whisper. Looking into the air, from the clouds descended two dozen wyrms.

The wyrms spread out wing to wing, each with a wingspan width of a hundred feet or more. The undead dragons unleashed a torrent of icy magic, engulfing even their own troops in a tempest of hellish frozen water. Thousands might've perished in the sudden attack…it was impossible to tell. As a wyrm passed overhead, Valdar cursed at it, raising a fist in anger. The wyrms then took to attacking the wall as their target. With their blasts of dragonice, the frost wyrms synchronized their attacks on the greatest castle along Thoradin's Wall; Castle Trollbane.

Unable to track the fast moving wyrms, let alone damage them, the ballistae crews abandoned their equipment as the beasts of the sky encased the Castle in ice. Inside, the stones suddenly cooled to near absolute zero exploded. The upper half of the castle came crashing down in shards of ice and great boulders, crushing hundreds more beneath.

With their bottleneck pierced and the Wall crumbling, Valdar stood and prepared to issue a statement of retreat. "Look to the skies! They gryphons of Aerie Peak have come!" some now cried. For a moment, Valdar had thought he'd gone mad, but looking above the northern mountains, what seemed like a distant flock of birds suddenly grew into a mass migration of great flying lions.

As the gryphons approached, Valdar saw diminutive looking men, dwarves to be exact, riding them, and in their hand were the famed storm-hammers of the Aerie. Glowing bright blue and white, the hammers were released as the gryphon riders began to encircle and dogfight with the frostwyrms. In an instant, the tide had turned.

"FORWARD!" Valdar ordered.

The Skies Above Thoradin's Wall

Falstad Dragonreaver let up on the reins of his gryphon companion, Windsoar. The gryphon cried in exhilaration of open flight. Falstad had just given to him full control. It was customary, and more effective, for the gryphons to fly freely during battle, in which the windriders would wield weapons and strike at the right moment. The duos, having trained for years, were a perfect coupling. Such was the same for all windriders and their respective gryphons.

"Come get it ye' bastards!" Falstad shouted out at the top of his lungs. At his side flew a hundred of his best windriders from both Wildhammer and their adopted Stormpike brothers, circling and spinning around in complex acrobatic maneuvers around the lumbering frostwyrms.

"This is what I've been waitin' for, Falstad!" he heard his friend, Molok say in joy. Flight was always an adrenaline rush. Molok and his gryphon-ally, Barlee, pulled up next to him.

"That one!" Falstad pointed out. The gryphons had already identified their target, an especially big, scary looking wyrm. The beast, a hundred feet long, swooped down from the dark clouds, freezing the rain droplets as it passed with its icy breath. Falstad made some hand signals, and Molok nodded.

Spinning end over end, Molok pulled away and into the clouds. Falstad leaned forward, urging Windsoar to move faster. The two headed straight for the frostwyrm, and at the last minute avoided collision but flying straight down.

"**You dare defy ****Sarathstra****!?!" **The dragon cried out madly, voice echoing off the distant ground.

"And up we go!" Falstad let Windsoar deftly pull up, barely a hundred meters from the ground and head straight for the underbelly of the beast.

From above, a bolt of lightning suddenly lit up the sky, and from it headed straight down Molok, his stormhammer burning azure. Falstad unsheathed an adamantite blade twice as tall as he was, from a pack that hung on the side of Windsoar. Blinking the water out of their eyes, Falstad and Windsoar initiated a steep climb straight up while Molok and Barlee headed straight down on top of Sarathstra.

"Here it is! Taste the mettle of the Wildhammer dwarves, ye undying son o' a goat!" Falstad laughed wildly. In a blur of actions, Sarathstra attempted to double take out of his flight path in a loop, but the gryphon riders were too quick. Molok smashed Sapphiron on the head with his stormhammer, a crackle of thunder releasing with the hit. Falstad held out his blade, gutting Sarathstra with a long strike.

Screaming in agony, Sarathstra plummeted towards the ground, leaving pits of decaying flesh and innards in his wake. As Falstad and Molok passed each other, they exchanged a quick smile.

"Another one down. They be all the same, eh' Windsoar?" the gryphon squealed in agreement.

No sooner had the two started heading for another ailing frostwyrm, dozens of windriders circling about it, had a sudden blast of icy death erupted from the ground. At least fifteen riders were caught in the blast, the very air around them freezing. As the bolt reached the cloud, it blew a hole through the warm air in the domes of the cumulonimbus clouds, allowing for a downburst of frigid air from the stratosphere to descend.

"What?!" Falstad and Windsoar suddenly lost all control in the downburst, caught up in sudden, powerful winds. Barely regaining control before they smashed into the ground like so many others, Falstad looked back at the origin of the attack.

The dragon that had claimed itself the be Sarathstra was crouched on the ground on all fours. Steam seemed to emanate around it, the beast so powerful that its surroundings themselves froze.

The dragon then rose up on its hind legs and let out a terrifying cry. From the clouds descended hundreds of gargoyles. Falstad's eyes opened wide as he realized the trap they'd walked into.

"This will take longer than we thought…" he muttered to Windsoar.

Kalimdor

Leaving the fight behind, Thrall had walked back to the Alliance encampment. Placing the unconscious Hellscream in a Circle of Power set up by Proudmoore and a cadre of elvish priests as well as orcish shamans, Thrall stepped back and allowed the casters to do their job.

With blasts of holy energy, the priests cleansed Grom's body of its demonic influence. The shamans, murmuring in the midst of their incense smoke, were traversing the spirit plane and rescuing Grom from floating hopelessly in the sea of demonic corruption that had stained his soul.

Grimly, Thrall looked on, knowing that even now his comrades were dying fighting their own kind. What was worse, the demons had now fully invested themselves into the battle, and were attacking everything in sight, be it Warsong orc, human, or otherwise. Screams and sword clashes were disturbingly close, echoing over the small plateaus of rock above the Circle of Power.

"Madam Proudmoore, the demons are overwhelming us. There are simply too many, and we don't know how to kill them. Not even the orcs can compete." A runner had announced, wiping sweat and the splatters of blood from his face as he reported to Jaina. She stood by passively, completely drawn into her work of cleansing Grom.

"Order everyone, Horde and Alliance, to pull back to the perimeter. We'll make our stand near that valley." Thrall ordered monotonously in the best Common he could muster. The human hesitated for a moment, not used to taking orders from an orc, then turned and ran off.

After what seemed an eternity, Grom began to stir. The green tone of his skin had returned, though his eyes still glowed with the curse. Thrall felt both disappointment and happiness. Grom was under his own control once again, though the possibility of him falling back into demonic influence still existed.

"Grom?" Thrall spoke.

Blinking, Grom sat up. "Thrall…I see clearly now. I'm—sorry. I am so sorry."

It pained Thrall to see Grom, whom had always been the strong, elder figure in his life, on his knees, near tears, apologizing. "Allow me to take my life. I have been weak. Weakness among the orcs cannot be forgiven."

"To hell with your apologies! Right now, I need your help to save our people!" Thrall exclaimed, unable to take the scene.

"Mannaroth…we must face Mannaroth in the canyon. He awaits us. It is fate. He has told me of the encounter." Grom pointed towards the canyon at the end of the riverbed. The fighting had moved off away from the wadi, centering now on the outskirts of the orc/Alliance base.

"Then let's go. I don't want to keep the bastard waiting."

"Let me help you." Thrall turned to see Jaina Proudmoore, standing tall and ready.

"No. This is something we must do alone." Thrall turned and walked off, Grom trailing close behind.

The Battlefield before Thoradin's Wall

Unable to see from through his left eye and dizzy from blood loss, Valdar stumbled from foe to foe, struggling to keep up with the pace of the battle. Constantly trying to wipe the blood out of his eye, he seemed to open the wound even more. He had no idea what was going on now. The fight had devolved into mass chaos. He had no clue where Rogir was, let alone where exactly he was.

The gryphon riders, which had moments before been their hope, had suddenly been blasted away by a massive wyrm, perhaps the king of them all. A few of them still survived, dog fighting gargoyles and the remaining wyrms which at least kept the airborne enemy off of them for a while.

Catapults from the Scourge fired flaming wreckage at Thoradin's Wall, but the massive stone escarpment proved to be much too powerful to collapse from the blows of a few catapults. Others fired what seemed to be a jumble of corpses, bones, and other unused parts, some landing on top of, and others, behind the Wall. The Scourge had had enough spare parts to even use as artillery munitions.

_If we can keep the Scourge from getting past the Wall, then we can still win this war, or at the very least stem the tide. _Valdar knew that there were two massive, powerful armies on the march north; the first from Ironforge, and another from Stormwind. With the two of them, the tides might yet turn.

With wobbling knees, Valdar attempted to find someone who knew what was going on. _I need information! _

Not too far away there was a man on horseback, with a plethora of flags surrounding him. Pushing his way through the battle and past a line of spearmen that guarded the mounted man, Valdar recognized that he was from the 7th Army.

"You there, have you been sent with an advanced unit?" he called out.

"What are you blabbering about boy. The whole 7th's been deployed. There's no rearguard—" before the man could finish his sentence, an arrow pierced his shoulder and he fell to the muddy floor screaming bloody murder.

_Treat's the idiot right for sitting horseback in the middle of a heavy battle. _

But if the 7th had truly been fully deployed, then that meant that there was no one to protect the back of the Wall. If somehow the enemy…_DAMN!_

"What the hell do you think your doing, boy?!" the 7th Army officer wheezed.

"Shut up!" Valdar swung himself onto the horse and rushed towards the Wall. The cullis gate was open, through which wounded were being taken in via one lane and through another the reserves from the 7th Army were pouring in.

"Sir Justax!" a voice called out. It was Osra. Picking her up, the two made their way towards the Wall.

Body slamming the wooden door under the huge arching gateway, Valdar and Osra hurriedly rushed up flights of stairs through the dimly lighted stone hallways. Now and again he'd pass by a group of dead bodies, footmen whom had either tried to make a stand or escape. Did that mean he was too late?

Heaving, Valdar threw open the door to the rampart, and beheld a spectacle he'd never forget: upon the ramparts undead and human and elf fought with their all, hundreds on either side. But it was nothing compared to what lay below. The battle, stretching into the mist of the rain, was all encompassing. The very sight of it struck him to his core.

"We're too late." He whispered.

The fight was starting to turn against the Alliance. Without the support of the heavy artillery and wizardry of the Wall, as well as having to cover two massive gaps in its length, the allied armies were stretched far too thin. In the skies, the few remaining gryphon riders had cleared up all the frost wyrms save the greatest of them all, but were being constantly harried by huge flying demons and gargoyles. They were doing all they could to merely survive.

On the other side of the Wall, the thousands of shards of bodies tossed over by the meatwagons began to reanimate. They were surrounded. The Wall was being overrun, and the campsites and field hospitals were now taken as well. To escape, they'd have to cut their way through.

Clenching her fists, Osra threw herself into the battle. Valdar stood for a moment, trying to think of what to do. To win the battle, they _needed _control of this edifice. It was the bottleneck into Stromgarde. If it fell, then the massive undead army would be free to rein in yet another country, and the force being the size it was, would be far too large to face in the field.

Suddenly Valdar noticed something strange; in the midst of the undead stood a figure, slightly taller than the average man, but with sheets of metallic black skin and sinister, glowing purple eyes. Spikes protruded from the figures elbows and knees, though it didn't seem to have any other weaponry other than that. Suddenly it struck him. This was the monster that was leading the Scourge army…it was the one whom had destroyed Castle Perres, and shattered the 7th. But how did it get up here?

_ELLENA_

Valdar felt the realization literally jolt his body. It was his fault Ellena was dead. This thing fit the description perfectly; tall, princely, menacing, shimmering, ebon flesh, piercing purple eyes, and more. The world around him seemed to swirl about, the undead, the fighting, and sky and stones of Thoradin's Wall: everything except the being standing behind the undead, watching uncaringly as they slaughtered the Stromgardians on the ramparts, taking them but utter surprise.

Dashing forward, Valdar unsheathed his blade. With blood in his left eye, he'd lost his depth perception, and bumped into several soldiers. Undead swung at him in an attempt to stop his advance, but as soon as he'd hit their line, a massive blast of hot air knocked everyone backwards. In the wake of the abrupt attack, the only thing left standing was the demon lord.

With a wave of his arm, half the undead and Stromgardians were suddenly blasted away, many off the sides of the ramparts. Men and women screamed as they flew through the air, landing with bone crunching thuds. Crouching, Valdar looked up.

_This is the one! The one that Thorr spoke of! He's the one who killed Ellena! _Valdar's thoughts rushed, but his body had reacted even faster. Pulling his sword from its sheath, the knight dashed towards the beingwith speed he's never known he had, striking right at the beast's neck. He didn't even think before moving.

Centimeters from the Legion Lord's sinuous flesh blue flame erupted like armor. The monster stood still, surveying the scene as Valdar attempted to push the blade through the flame. His blade turned orange, and then white-hot. The heat conducted up the blade, igniting the leather wrapping on the hilt. Trying to ignore the pain, Valdar pushed on even harder. In seconds, the blade melted and turned to slag, dripping away from its former form.

"**Fascinating. This is the first time I have seen the threads of causality wrapped around a mortal so tightly.**"

"I don't give a damn about that!" Valdar pressed even harder. In an instant, the sword shattered, and the next thing Valdar knew he'd been thrown backwards twenty feet into the stone wall of the turret behind him. Coughing a bout of blood, he realized that a rib had probably pierced his lung.

"Lord Justax!" he heard Osra's voice suddenly call out. Looking over, he saw the female fighter emerge from the throng of battle, in midair throwing a dagger. The swirling knife found the same fate as Valdar's sword however.

"**Out of the way, insect.**" With a single backhanded blow, Osra too flew backwards, crashing into a pile of rubble that used to be one of the ballistae. "**Though you are interesting, the threads of fate around which have been sown to you may prove unsavory for me in the future. To prevent such outcomes, I'll eliminate you right now. Know that you were slain by Haures of the Legion. You could consider it a blessing to be touched by my blade**" Haures stepped closer and closer to Valdar, each pace echoing for what seemed like an eternity. From his right hand, Haures produced a bladeless hilt that suddenly erupted into a black, ferrous liquid that instantly sharpened to a double pointed sword.

Standing, Valdar grabbed the dagger that hung at his side, preparing to fight the being. Suddenly, Haures seemed taller than before, and far stronger. The mere presence of it made it hard to think; terror…pure terror. To fight something like this at his level seemed impossible. But he had to…

Charging, he swung the dagger in a wide arc, Haures moved backwards instantly, then disappeared. In the blink of an eye, he was behind Valdar. Swinging downward, Valdar barely moved out of the way of the attack, a wide gash cut into his back plate and flesh.

And then all of a sudden, the light disappeared. Standing before Haures was a band of two dozen men, robed in a snowy white with argent trim. At the base of their cowls was an inscription of some ancient language Valdar couldn't make out. One of them had stabbed Haures in the stomach, and was kneeling down.

"Haures of the Legion, the Excubitores have come to deem you." The lead man spoke, pulling what seemed like a crystalline sword from the demon's torso.

One of the robed figures turned to face him.

"Go! We will hold him off for now."

Valdar noticed that in front of the entire Alliance army a shimmering shield had been erected. Any undead that attempted to enter through it dissolved. Was this what they'd used at Dalaran?

The horn for full retreat went up. Tallheart was taking the chance he had to get behind the Wall. That meant that indeed the Army must've been under incredible pressure. Looking beyond the shield, that much was clear. The hordes of the undead seemed to keep coming from infinity, no matter how many tens of thousands had been slain today.

Nodding, Valdar stood up and went over to Osra. She was unconscious. Slinging her over his shoulder, he took a long look back at the figures of Haures and the newcomer wizards. The one with the crystalline sword was saying something he couldn't hear. Feeling torn, the images of Ellena and his brothers floated in his mind. His fists clenched so hard that he could feel blood begin to draw in his mailed fists.

With a sore throat, he discarded the images, knowing that there were more pressing issues. He had to save Osra and regroup with the Dogs while he could. There would be time to think later. For now, survival was paramount. If he couldn't live through this, then how could he face Haures again?

_They better not kill him. That's what I'm going to do. _He knew that Haures was his goal. But how in the Light's name could he reach such a height…

The Valley of Wisdom

Grom and Thrall had traversed the same terrain that only minutes ago had been a raging battlefield. The corpses of the freshly dead were littered everywhere, along with debris from the fight. Great portions of the wadi and grass in the fields were on fire from the sudden demonic invasion, setting a pyre for the dead.

A thick mist had descended from the sickly sky. The land itself had begun to transform under the arcane energies that poured forth from the Legion's portals. The sky was black.

The two orcs walked slightly hunched, prepared for a sudden attack. The air was heavy with the smell of the dead and fog, the canyon seeming more foreboding every waking moment. Like something out of legend, the two orcs kept moving forward.

Shadows played off the walls of the canyon. Distant, intense fires lit the dark sky a pall of green. Thrall knew that the spirits had abandoned this place, and that he would have to rely on his own strength.

From the certain crags in the ground, unnatural, viridian molten lava seeped forth, coloring the steam that came off it the same fern green as the sky. It was an unholy place.

Not far away, the disturbing laughter of a being far greater than they're own power, echoed. The creature's laugh felt in itself demoralizing, deep, and incredibly evil. Grom and Thrall immediately stopped, pulling their weapons into the ready.

"**So predictable…I knew you would come." **The echo's of Mannaroth's voice seemed to grow deeper as they resonated.

"**And I see you brought the mighty Hellscream." **Sarcasm dipped into the demons voice. Laughs again bounced off the rock walls of the long canyon, vibrating Thrall's armor as if he were being shaken by someone.

"**His blood is mine!" **Tremors from behind prompted the orcs to turn. From a nestled position, Mannaroth unfolded his limbs and stretched his long, torn wings. Upon his head a crown of flame burned. His eyes and mouth seemed to literally emit fire as they opened and closed, smoke erupting from his nostrils. The massive pit lord, with scaly skin that resembled rocks, batted his heavy tail on the ground, sending a thundering sound through the canyon. From behind, a gigantic, double ended pike emerged in his hand, which he thrust into the ground. "**As is your whole, misbegotten race!"**

With a roar, Thrall smashed the Doomhammer on the ground. Its pulsating charge emitted a cascade of sound and light that at its height, nearly blinded and deafened the orcs. With everything he had, Thrall tossed the hammer at Mannaroth. In an explosion of sparks, the hammer was tossed into the canyon wall. A shockwave of wind accompanied the sparks.

Slowly, Mannaroth pulled back the armored wing he'd used to defend himself. The two tusks on his head seemed to grow as more fire pulsed from his body. **"A worthy effort, but futile!" **Mannaroth charged at Thrall, jumping high into the air and landing right in front of him, crushing the stone into a crater. Grom rolled sideways, avoiding the crushing impact of the demon lord. He struck sideways and hit Thrall with the handle of his pike, breaking the orcs arm and sending him flying into the canyon wall.

Mannaroth laughed again. "**The boy believed you could be saved—"** Grom started to his feet. Blood oozed from his mouth. "—**but he didn't know what burns within your soul.**" Grom could feel the intensity of the blood curse rising, urging him to obey Mannaroth. His vision began to redden. Looking down at his hands, he began to pant. "**In your heart, you know we are **_**the same**_**." **

"_The strength of our leaders alone is not what keeps the clans in line. It is the orcish spirit: our nobility and honor. Know this, Grommash; without honor, there is strife. Without nobility there is chaos. Without restraint, even to our basest instincts, there is unending suffering. Do you understand what I have told you today, Grommash?" _

"_Yes, father." _

The images of his past began to flood through Grom; battle, glorious and foolish, youth, and his father. The memories of Thrall, a youngling orc whom had known nothing but battle in the gladiatorial arenas, the son of Durotan whom had become the Warchief of the Horde were there too. In a defining moment, perhaps the last of his life, Grom looked up and denied the curse.

"NOOO!" he shouted. Jumping to his feet, the three hundred pound warrior brought his last axe to bear, running as fast as he could towards Mannaroth. Unbelieving, Mannaroth took a moment to ready himself. It proved fatal. As he swung the double pike over his head in preparation, he was a split second too late. Grommash Hellscream, Warlord of the Warsong Clan, jumped into the air, and with more strength than perhaps any orc could ever bring to bear, cut through the King of Pit Lords' chest-plate and deep into his body, perhaps even his heart.

Grom fell to the ground, his axe embedded in Mannaroth. The Pit Lord, unable to believe what had just happened, staggered backwards. In a magical backlash, the powers that had sustained Mannaroth suddenly consumed him, and a flame that had resided in his gullet exploded outwards. Standing, Grom was caught in the firestorm, the front of his body horribly blackened and maimed. As the sudden explosion subsided, Grom fell backwards.

Seeing everything that had happened, Thrall urged himself to his feet. Limping towards his mortally wounded friend, he bit his lip as he saw the extent of Grom's injuries. Edging closer, Thrall fell to his knees, reverent in Grom's last moments.

_This is how you would have wanted to go…_

"Thrall…" Grom's voice was weak. His eyes were still a shade of red, though the flame was subsiding. "The blood haze has lifted. The demon's fire has burnt out in my veins." His voice disappeared in a quick spat of bloody coughs. "I have—_freed _myself." Thrall had never heard such emotion in Hellscream's voice. The orc, his adopted brother, hero, and friend, let out a last breath. The tint of redness was forever gone as he closed his eyes for the last time.

"No old friend…you've freed us all…" Thrall looked up to the skies and cried out to the heavens with a voice filled with grief and anguish.

**End of Act VI**

_(Author's Note: Air superiority is vital! Read and review my friends._

_-Omegatrooper)_


	36. Chapter 35: Children of the Moon

**Act VII**

**Chapter 35: Children of the Moon**

Thoradin's Wall

"Go! We will hold him off for now." Cyrus called out to the human boy whom had just taken what looked like a severe beating from the creature named Haures. The boy looked at him dazed for a moment before rising to his feet and rushing off to help an injured comrade.

"**Excubitores? I will commend you on surpassing even the Guardians, little ones, but your efforts cannot stop the Legion.**" Haures retorted, glancing around at the battlefield below.

"One can only be so sure if he has seen fate as I have!" the Proprietor swung his crystal sword downward, slicing into Haures' body. Incredibly, the magical blade was able to deal damage to the Legion lord, slicing it him nearly in half. Black liquid poured from his body. He merely grunted.

"How does it feel, Haures of the Legion? To be frozen by a mortal's blade?" Cyrus caught a brief glimmer of a smile under the Proprietor's hood.

Haures look up to the sky. Two doomguard suddenly swooped down from the sky, landing on the Wall with great thuds. Cracks appeared under their weight. With flaming swords, the massive, twenty five foot tall doomguards jumped into a series of parries and swings amongst the rest of the Excubitores.

Cyrus leaned back with most of his weight on the his back leg, pointing his new staff, at one of the doomguards as it was held up by another Excubitor. Tendrils of purple gathered around the end of the gnarled, magnificent staff. The magic gathered and fired off in a blast that left rings of smoke behind it. Hitting the doomguard, the blast knocked the gigantic creature off its legs and clear off the Wall. Before it could even begin to fall however, the power of the staff had begun to disintegrate its body into ash.

Cyrus marveled at the weapon he'd been awarded upon his entry to the Excubitores. Each member of the small group had been given an item of incredible magic upon their initiation, and he'd been gifted one of the most legendary weapons of his people's making: the Pillar of Quel'thalas, which had lain in the Vault of Treasures for nearly two thousand years. Exhilarated, Cyrus jumped into the fight with the next doomguard.

"**Your body may be mortal, but that weapon is not of this world's making. Only those with a special fate may wield it, as you.**" Haures returned, looking back at the Proprietor once again.

"So you are one of the Augurs?"

"**I am one of those. And more.**"

As the last doomguard was dispatched, Cyrus and the rest of the troop turned their attention to the two leaders once again.

"Then I will end it now. Die, Haures!" the Proprietor's voice changed. There was something different in it…for the first time, Cyrus thought he heard fear.

"**Mortals, even with godly weapons, cannot slay gods!**" a gigantic shockwave resonated from Haures, pushing all the Excubitores backwards. Thoradin's Wall, within about a five to ten meter diameter was literally blown away. A huge crater now inhabited the spot where Haures was standing.

The Proprietor emerged from a pile of rubble, several feet away. His blade was still covered in the black blood of Haures, though the demon seemed to have completely regenerated.

"**Your blade is an interesting one. I couldn't move when you had stabbed me, though I am fine now. I cannot be brought down by the likes of you, Dragias. I will be the one to succeed Archimonde. I will succeed Sargeras!**" The ferrous liquid sword that he held in his hand suddenly enlarged, growing even longer.

Cyrus watched in stunned silence. Dragias? What was he talking about? The brand which had at first itched, now seemed like it was on fire, oozing blood down Cyrus' white cloak.

"You can keep dreaming, Haures." The Proprietor replied, standing up. "My Excubitores will finish you and the rest of the Legion."

"**I know exactly what you are planning, little elf. Your concept of victory is a hollow one.**"

"Enough! Excubitores, fall out." On his whim, the various Excubitores blinked out of the battlefield, their work done. The Alliance army had retreated safely. Cyrus remained just long enough to hear the Proprietor tell Haures one last thing. "I'll see you again. Soon."

"**Of course. It is fated." **

Ashenvale Forest, Several Days Later

Ashenvale Forest stretched to the horizon and beyond. It was a lush, viridian, filled with a hundred thousand different types of trees and plants, and even more animals. The canopy of the great forest blocked out much of the light, leaving the abyss under the tall trunks a dark place. Even so, beautiful glades and meadows opened up every once in a while, places of growth and sunlight.

Upon a cliff near the base of the slowly rising escarpment that led to the rocky central uplands of Ashenvale whereupon the great Mount Hyjal was crowned by Nordrassil, a lone Sentinel watched over the forest, silently and melancholically.

Tyrande Whisperwind held her vigil, as she had for ten thousand years. Yet something was amiss. After a millennium of peace, evil had returned to Ashenvale: a threat.

"Pardon Priestess, but you've been staring out across Ashenvale for hours, or so they tell me." Shandris Feathermoon, her second, spoke up. She had just made the journey from the distant settlement of Astranaar.

"I sense something dark stirring in the forest, Shandris. It feels as if its heading this way." The ancient priestess replied.

"The greenskins who killed Cenarius?"

"Perhaps…perhaps something greater." She held out her arm, as if hawking, and chanted something under her breath. A slight breeze picked up the fallen leaves from the ground, which swirled around her arm. Light grew within the tiny typhoon, and soon enough had formed into a ghostly owl.

The owl leapt off her arm, flying into the distance. Tyrande closed her eyes, connected with the owl, and could suddenly see all it could. The owl had been granted to her by the spirits of the forest and the Ancients, beings far wiser, and far more understanding than she.

As the owl soared above the world, it spotted smoke coming from below. Swooping down, it noticed a campsite full of the greenskins, as well as some strange, metal clad pinkskins as well.

_"Put your backs into it! Jaina and the orc Warchief expect this base to be built swiftly!" _The words were wavy, but recognizable. Their language was easy for the spirits to decifer.

_"Bah! We shouldn't even be here! Or siding with the orcs." A metal clad warrior spoke up. _

_"We're here to hunt the remaining demons, human. You're lucky our goals are the same." The greenskin said with a seething tone. Both sides clearly did not like each other._

_"Alright, mind your business. Back to work." The first human announced, breaking up the possible conflict. _

Clear as crystal, Tyrande could tell the disposition and weaknesses of these outlanders. They were not suited for fighting in these forests at all. But how then had the greenskins alone defeated Cenarius?

"So these orcs and humans presume to run rampant through our lands? They will regret running rampant through Ashenvale. Shandris!"

"Yes my Lady?"

"Prepare the Sentinels. I want to remove this cancer immediately. We will avenge Cenarius." Tyrande looked up to the dusk sky. The first stars had begun to emerge. Running past her with incredible, inhuman speed and agility, shadows jumped through the trees, the silent rustle on the leaves of their passing the only thing that gave their movement away.

Like airy spirits, the night elves emerged from the forest, converging on the outlander base in the meadow ahead. Among them some of the trees themselves began to uproot, moving with their own will and intent. Bright little wisps wove between the trees, implanting themselves in the greater trees to grant them even more power. Sentinels atop their black panther friends raced forward.

In minutes, the outlanders had been completely surrounded without even knowing it. Tyrande looked on in anger. The one in charge, whom had broken up the argument, wore gilded silver armor and carried a great hammer in one hand, and some kind of archaic book in another.

She realized that her strength, as well as that of the Sentinels, had diminished over time. Long had it been since they fought, and with only hunting and vigils to keep them, they had most likely grown lax. They would figure that in, and use surprise to their advantage.

The Sentinel army, some 1,000 strong, were prepared to strike. Tyrande notched her bow, along with the rest of the force.

_Elune, guide my path; _the ancient prayer that had accompanied the Sentinels as long as their precarious watch was spoken in the minds of each and every warrior. In that instant, the arrows were all loosed. Tyrande watched as her arrow, glowing slowly with the favor of Elune, flew towards the human leader. The human noticed however, and immediately flipped open his book and muttered something. An aura of gold appeared around him, and Tyrande's arrow was deflected. The orcs and humans, many struck by the arrowheads, began to run around in panic.

Then, the forest itself seemed to come alive. Treants and the Trees of the Ancients emerged, along with the Sentinel huntresses and bladeswomen. In a mere couple of seconds, the trap had been sprung. With complete surprise, the night elves cut through the outlanders with ease, and Tyrande had found a path towards the human leader whom seemed to be trying to rally his troops.

"Ban du thoribas, mortals. You will pay for defiling these lands!" Tyrande called out in Thalassian as she rode along with a pack of huntresses. To the right, a stack of barrels exploded, blowing nearly half of a great stone tower recently erected by the humans away. The tower, unable to stand, collapsed to the side, crushing yet another building, this one of orcish design.

"Demons! The lot of you!" The human leader spoke vehemently, swinging his hammer at Tyrande as she approached on her giant white panther.

Tyrande felt her mood suddenly swing even sourer. "How dare you call us demons, when it is you mongrels that threaten this land. Leave now, or face the might of the Night Elves."

"We're not going anywhere." The human answered back, stroking his gray beard.

"So be it." Tyrande slung her scythed shuriken and scimitar from their holsters along her back. The human dodged the massive shuriken, pushing off a piece of rubble and jumping into the air, hammer held high over his head. The panther broke off its line, moving sideways, and Tyrande countered the blow with her scimitar. The human struck again, his hammer glowing bright orange this time, golden seals emerging from the human's body. His speed and strength suddenly doubled, and he struck twice more, each blow harder to parry.

Tyrande however had positioned him right to where she wanted him. Tugging on two strings that had been attached to her left hand's index and middle fingers, the shuriken that had been embedded in a wall behind the two suddenly flew forward, slicing the paladin's head off before being caught perfectly by the Priestess.

The battle began to wind down as the leader was stricken, but Tyrande felt that something was still wrong. The humans and orcs had separated into small pockets, fighting for their very lives. Everything seemed to be going fine. She noticed then that creatures from the forest were rushing by fear in their eyes. What she saw next she had a hard time believing.

From the south, a wall of horrific monstrosities emerged. Most were decrepit, skeletal, figures. Some were gigantic stitched abominations, and others yet resembled a far greater fear, a nightmare from an ancient past: demons. The humans and orcs immediately jumped into battle with the creatures.

"The undead! They must've followed us from Lordaeron!" she heard one say.

The thin line of defenders was quickly overcome however, the sheer amount of enemies overwhelming them; undead and demons, and in the thousands at that.

"Elune save us! The undead advance in waves!" a Sentinel cursed.

"Quickly my sisters! Back to the trees! We are no match for a force this vast." Tyrande called out. As her fellow Sentinels rushed back to the cover of Ashenvale, by the riverfront not a hundred yards away, flashes of light and sparks suddenly burst up in the air. After a final, green flash, there stood several beings she'd hoped to never have seen again.

_Archimonde…_

Flanking the figure of the eredar was a vampiric creature, one of the Legion's _Nathrazim, _as well as a troop of gigantic doomguard. Archimonde and the dreadlord approached. Upon recognizing Tyrande, Archimonde's face broke into a hideous, rare, smile.

"You see, Lord Archimonde? We need not fear the night elves. The Scourge can—" the dreadlord was broken off.

"Archimonde…after 10,000 years, how is it possible? How can you yet live? I saw with my own eyes, the Legion…" Tyrande was at a loss for words.

The demon lord chuckled. "**The Legion has returned to consume this world, woman. This time, your troublesome, weak race will not stop us**."

"So the omens of Stormrage have proven true." Tyrande whispered, her thoughts quickly whisking past to an age long gone. _And if that is the case, I cannot die now. I must awaken the druids!_

Letting the power of nature into her body, Tyrande felt the air bend away from her and conceal her behind a curtain of imagery. In an instant, she had melded in with her surroundings.

"**Fools!**" The demon lord raged. He looked at one of the doomguard next to him and waved a hand in anger. The doomguard exploded in a bloody mist. "**You let her slip away! Find her, and kill her!" **

Ashenvale Forest, Evening 

The chase had continued for hours on end. Separated from the rest of their forces, Tyrande and two archers had plodded through the thick forest, the undead and demons right on their tail. Every time they thought they had shaken them they appeared. Every time they sought to rest, the demons swooped upon them. Infernals rained from the sky across all Ashenvale. One of the archers was incinerated by the heat of a plummeting infernal, and soon after another was swept up in the talons of a gargoyle.

Tyrande's panther panted ravenously as she urged it on through the close knit trees of Ashenvale forest. She was unsure how long she had been fleeing: it could have been anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours. She had to make it to Astranaar where Shandris would be waiting…though she didn't know how far exactly it was, as she'd had to make detours to avoid the demons.

All she felt was terror.

Demons. The Demons had returned. How? And why? At first, Tyrande tried to tell herself it was a nightmare, or perhaps a magical flux confusing her senses. But no, she had to accept the truth: the Burning Legion had returned.

Recently, nature had been greatly disturbed. Tyrande could feel nature crying out in pain; the voice of Mother Elune continued to be full of wails of woe. First, greenskinned brutes had set about hacking down their beloved forest and now new hideous monstrosities had arrived. Worse yet, a thin, pale skinned race accompanied the orcs, moving further into the forest, taking resources for themselves and despoiling the land. Even Cenarius had fallen to the outlanders.

_I will make them all pay, Goddess-willing,_ Tyrande thought as she kicked the right side of her nightsaber, indicating a left turn was necessary. She crashed through the undergrowth, branches, leaves, and trunks flying by her rapidly as if detached from this world and part of another. It was as if she had left her body and was merely a spirit, wind carrying her through a field of darkness with no hope in sight. She shook her head, casting out the sense of doubt that gnawed at her core.

_This is the Legion's doing. It must've been they who forced those outlanders out of their homes and into our sacred forest. __The Legion will fail,_ Tyrande reassured herself. _We defeated them before, and they have only grown weaker since then. _

Yet for all her confidence, a latent sense of fear crept across her heart. Yes, the Demons had been bested before, but the world was a different place then. In the 10,000 years since the defeat of the Burning Legion the Night Elves, too, had grown weaker. The Druids, symbols and channels for the Energy of Nature, now lay slumbering. Could Tyrande possibly wake them? The once proud fauna of Ashenvale, once stalwart allies of the Night Elves, had begun to warp since the reappearance of Archimonde and his retinue.

Archimonde. That name alone was enough to give Tyrande pause. He was alive, vicious, and more powerful than ever. If the rumors were true, he was second only in power to the might Sargeras himself. If this were so, there would be little hope of defeating him. His attitude had changed though. He was once far more analytical and quiet. She supposed the 10,000 year wait had made him impatient.

_No, I cannot fear,_ Tyrande urged herself. As leader of the Sentinels, she of all elves needed to remain strong in the face of crisis. Who else would her warriors look to at a time like this? There was no Furion to lead them this time; Tyrande had only herself to rely on.

As she moved through the undergrowth, Tyrande heard a horrid roaring, a sound akin to a ravenous dire bear in agony. She looked to the source of the sound and saw a monstrous sight: behind her towered a Felguard, its massive blade swishing through the air, hacking limbs off trees as it rushed towards Tyrande.

_Damn, I thought I had evaded the Demons and here one is right on my tail,_ Tyrande cursed, her mind flashing with messages. _Run! Fight! You can't win! Best to sacrifice yourself and slow it down! _

Tyrande shook her head. _I need to get a grip; I must clear my mind and concentrate on the task at hand._ Hastily, Tyrande drew her bow and fitted a shaft to the string. Urging her mount around a tree, she let loose her first arrow. The Felguard seemed to chuckle, batting the missile aside lazily with its massive sword.

The Priestess cursed as she watched the creature cleave a tree in two before aiming at her. She was amazed that such a monstrosity could possess such finesse and skill. Tyrande's mount moved out of the way just in time as the hideous daemonic blade slammed into the undergrowth.

Notching another arrow, Tyrande called upon her goddess, Elune. _Mother of all Nature and the world, Elune guide my arrow!_ She fired, but this time she was unable to aim properly as her mount frantically rushed this way and that. The arrow _thunked_ harmlessly into the trunk of a tree as the Felguard came ever onward.

Tyrande offered another prayer as she readied her next arrow, her arms quivering as she prepared her next shot. The beast was nearer than ever; if she did not kill it, or at the very least slow it down soon, she would have no hope.

Tyrande thought back to every arrow she had fired, the way it had sailed, what it had hit, and the conditions of her firing. Of all those shots, this was by far the most important. Should she fall her, now, the Legion would surely triumph. Who would lead her people? Who could possibly summon allies? She took a deep breath and let her arrow fly towards the Felguard, using what nature magic she could to guide the weapon towards the creature's exposed face.

The Felguard, displaying unbelievable intelligence, turned its head sideways, causing the arrow to glance off the side of its helmet. Tyrande cursed as she saw the malicious smile on the monster's face. The demon now charged faster than ever, crashing through trees and shrubs, ignorant of the natural world around it, only intent on Tyrande.

Tyrande kicked her nightsaber madly, hoping it would break into a faster run, but she knew this would not happen. Her poor mount was overtaxed; it had been running wildly for the past few days, and it could only be pushed so far. As the distance closed between Tyrande and the Felguard she prayed for only one thing: that someone would take up her position, that another elf would lead her people to victory. The Sentinels would not allow the Burning Legion an easy victory.

Time slowed as the Felguard's blade swung towards Tyrande, its blue face alight with a toothy grin. Tyrande's life flashed before her eyes: her days growing up in Ashenvale forest, her time beside her lover Furion, the first battle against the Legion ten millennia ago. She sighed, watching the Felguard, awaiting her inevitable demise.

As the weapon came within a foot of Tyrande's head, she watched in shock as the beast stopped and roared in pain. Staring at its body, Tyrande noticed several arrows lodged in the break in the armor between the breastplate and helmet. The Felguard clutched at its neck, cursing in daemonic tongues, turning left and right to see the source of its pain. The Felguard lashed out, felling trees as it swept its sword, vainly trying to find who or what had assaulted it. As it continued its onslaught, more and more arrows seemed to pour from every direction, the shafts seeking the weaknesses in the demon's armor. Slowly, but surely, the demon slowed, finally collapsing as its body became little more than a pincushion.

Tyrande looked around for the source of her salvation, smiling as she saw a group of two dozen archers emerge from the tree line.

"Isnu'alah, Tyrande," one said, bowing. "We've been expecting you for some time. Come, we have much to discuss. Shandris Feathermoon has assembled the Sentinels and is awaiting your presence"

Tyrande nodded and followed her saviors into the deeps of Ashenvale. In her heart, she felt anguish and sorrow for the war to come, but steeled it for victory.

Stromgarde, The Highlands

Valdar sat in the tent, reflecting on the battle. He slowly traced the outline of the scar on his abdomen given to him in battle long ago. The same wound Ellena had tended to.

Now his torso had been bandaged so tightly that he could barely breathe. The doctor had told him he had received several broken ribs from the blow he'd taken upon the Wall. He'd also had the deep cut on his cheek and eyebrow stitched. They would also leave scars behind.

Standing, he glanced at Osra, who lay unconscious still on his cot. She'd taken an even worse hit from the Haures being, and lay near death for days afterwards. She still hadn't woken up. Balling his fists up, Valdar punched his leg in anger.

_Haures._

"Valdar! Thank the Light you be alive!" he heard Ghent's voice from outside the tent. Stepping out, he met his old friend.

"Good to see you too, Thorek." He replied, shielding his eyes from the sun with his arm.

"Gah mate, you look horrific; all bandaged and stitched up like that."

"You don't look much better." Valdar noticed that Ghent's arm was in a sling, and that his lower lip had been burst open.

"Want ta' test me?" Ghent said with his signature idiot grin.

"Forget about it. What are you here for?"

"Well sir, I just wanted to see if you was alright, but I do also have some bad news."

"We could always use more of that." Valdar said sarcastically.

"Our casualty rosters are also pretty high, but not as bad as the 1st and 4th Army's. The 1st is effectively finished as a fightin' force. Field Marshal Penwright is fumin', but they'll probably break up his army and assign the units to other elements, meanin' we might get some o' them 1st Army boys." The Alliance Army had come to rest here in the Highlands of Stromgarde, the best staging point they could find in the hilly Stromgarde countryside.

"Well that's not too bad." Valdar smiled at the thought of the furious Penwright.

"Well sire, General Helmsworth's been missing since the battle. We're not sure if he be alive or dead."

The smile on Valdar's face disappeared. "Damn it all…" he looked back through the open flap of the tent at Osra.

Just then, a man on horseback rode up to the two. It was Newt Tallheart, surrounded by his envoys. "Valdar, come with me. We're going to go greet our new guest." The man muttered, somewhat grimly.

"Excuse me, Thorek."

The two made their way to the Battle Tent, dismounted, and found that there all the Generals save Rogir Helmsworth. All the leaders, save Penwright and Tallheart had earned battle scars in the fight two days ago. However, there was one man whom Valdar had never seen before standing amidst the Generals. In fact, he towered above them; even Tallheart. He was wrapped in layers of fur and had thick black hair and a salt and pepper beard. Upon his head rested a simple golden crown.

"Valdar Justax, General of the Dogs of War, may I introduce you to our newest ally: King Thoras Trollbane I of the Sovereign Kingdom of Stromgarde and Tol Barad."

(Thanks to my good friend High Elf Swordsman for ghost writing part of the chapter! Don't worry VampiricAnt, I'll have the hydralisk in the next chapter ;) Thanks to all of you who pointed out my mistake with Sapphiron in the last chapter. Guess I was a bit too excited writing! Haha. I'll fix that right away.

Omegatrooper)


	37. Chapter 36: Escalation

**Chapter 36: Escalation**

_Over the scraggly abyss of the forest and under its trees, the night elves moved with speed. The Sentinels had come to know that invaders that called themselves humans or orcs had come to Ashenvale forest, slashing and burning as they went with no regard for the delicate balance of nature. _

_Worse yet, vile undead and the infernal Burning Legion followed them. Tyrande Whisperwind, High Priestess of Elune and Lady of the Sentinels, assumed that the outlanders had been pushed from their homelands by the undead, and not long afterwards, the Legion had returned. _

_Across all the realms of the night elves, war had arrived._

Ashenvale

Tyrande and her Sentinels trudged through the dark forests. As they moved on towards Shandris Feathermoon's encampment, they stopped at several rally points that had been set up in the thousands of years of planning by the Sentinels. At each one they picked up more and more of those cut off from their main forces.

Soon their force had grown from a dozen to over two hundred, all following her lead and guidance. If they could link up with Shandris, then Tyrande could get a better reading of what was going on. As it was, she had to reply on the spirits of the forest nearby. She was no match for the druids in the arts of sensing things through the wilderness. And that thought drove her even more: they had to wake the druids.

"Mistress!" one of her archers called out suddenly. The column stopped dead in its tracks. In front of them, a strange, alien creature slithered towards them. Its body was elongated like that of a snake, though it had two arms with huge scythes on either one, and a carapace that extended from its head and a mouth filled with razor teeth.

"What is that…" one of the archers muttered.

"Another aberration of the Burning Legion most like." Tyrande answered. Such a creature surly did not belong to this world. The monster moved towards them, rearing its head back and letting out a malefic hiss. Suddenly, faster than it would seem possible for such a being, it darted forward, cutting clean through an archer, sending the two halves of her body flying in opposite directions. Without even a command, a hail of arrows descended on the creature. Most of them simply slid off the slippery carapace, but a few stuck into the beast's tail.

Rearing its head back, the alien monster revealed several openings under its chin. From within a surprising explosion of small barbs flew forth, wounding several Sentinels. Before the charade went any further, Tyrande sent a quick prayer to Elune, the Moon God, and strung her bow. Releasing, the arrow flew forward like any other, but just before it hit the creature it suddenly sped up, releasing a thundering noise as it cut through the air. The arrow pierced the monster straight through its brains, but with such speed that the thing's head was taken along with the arrow, smashing into the ground sending leaves and dirt flying in a plume.

"Incredible…" she heard amazed murmurs in the crowd.

"We must press on. Shandris is right outside of this wood not a thousand paces up." Tyrande ordered.

"What about Eastal?" one of the huntresses dismounted and hugged the ruined remains of the archer that had been slain.

"She will be reclaimed by the forest. For a Sentinel, there is no higher honor than returning to Ashenvale. _Sheu yefs Eastal na dala._" Tyrande said a few words of honor to the fallen Sentinel before pressing on.

As the forest thinned, the settlement of Astranaar came into site. Surrounding it was a flowing creek, though the waters were sullied by blood and piles of bodies. The half-stone half-tree fusions that made the night elf buildings were in tatters, and it seemed that battle had recently visited the place.

"Tyrande! Praise Elune you've made it. The undead appeared out of nowhere and attacked our village without warning!" Shandris Feathermoon called out, riding up to the High Priestess and her envoy.

"_Ishnu dal dieb, _Shandris. How many have you lost?" Tyrande surveyed the scene. It seemed that only a few dozen Sentinels remained, where once hundreds had protected this town.

"Too many. Elune will weep tonight when she sees what these undead bastards have done. We were able to fight them off though, but much of the village is in flames." Shandris replied in a bitter tone.

"Have you heard anything about the other Sentinels?"

"I know that many are regrouping at the rally points, though we were surrounded for most yesterday and today, so we know not much since this calamity began." The younger night elf replied.

"We have a greater problem than just these corpses. The undead were sent here by the Burning Legion, our ancient enemies of old. Against such might, we have only one option. We must awaken the druids." Tyrande said, looking north.

Arathi Basin, Dusk

Valdar strolled slowly through the field hospital. Another battle had sent more wounded streaming in. However, he was looking for one man in particular. There had been a rumor that his second, Rogir Helmsworth, who'd been missing since the fight at Thoradin's Wall, had been spotted somewhere in this messy place.

Men and women both screamed out in agony. Saws were being used to slice off mortifying wounds in public. The pale faces of the dead were loaded onto carriages which were sent to massive funeral pyres, so that the Scourge couldn't use the corpses as additional troops.

The smell was beyond anything that words could describe. Blood, death, feces, dirty bodies, churned up dirt, gunpowder, all rolled up into a single, horrific stench: the stench of the field hospital. He'd already thrown up what little he'd managed to scavenge for breakfast from some hardy Arathi bushes.

Going from stall to stall, he asked for Rogir, finally able to get away from the stifling General's meetings. He felt more distant now from anyone than before. Rogir and Thorek were his only confidants, his only true friends, and now one was missing, possibly dead. As he walked, men gave him berth, recognizing him. He heard them whisper behind his back. _"It's the Black Wolf." _

He, along with the Dogs of War, had gained a reputation among the regulars as a fierce fighting force. They had been fully recognized as an individual group. _But we wouldn't have made it here without Rogir's guidance. _

When they were putting the Dogs together in the Penrose Forest, it was Rogir who contributed the most men and even relinquished command to Valdar. He had been a steady voice of support, friendship, and advice. After Ellena had died, he'd inspired Valdar with his words to get back up, stronger than ever, and fight on. And so he continued his search.

The sun began to disappear behind the mountains, and the stars grew in brightness, and finally, a familiar voice called up to him. "I hear they call you Black Wolf now." Rogir wheezed under a blanket.

"I've been looking everywhere for you! Are you ok?"

"Its—good to see you too, sir." Rogir replied, somewhat more submissive than usual. "I could always use a good shot of that Stromgardian whiskey they brew here."

"I'll make sure you get some. It'll sterilize you from the inside out." Valdar said, trying to be sarcastic. He could tell however, from the bloodstains that had begun to seep out from the blanket, that Rogir's wound was serious.

"Where did you get hit?" Valdar feared the question.

"I was riding on my horse, commanding our left when I hit by a spear. Don't know whose side it was, but it split my abdomen open badly. I…"

"It's ok. You'll be fine." Valdar tried to consol both himself and his second.

"I got back up, and held my insides back with my hand. I…I continued the charge. I hope I did well—I think I did well."

"You did great. We almost won. It was almost perfect. I'll have you command half the army next time. We'll be completely victorious. We might even kill the Scourge's lord! Wouldn't that be a sight?" Valdar could feel a lump in his throat.

"I couldn't die before I tell you…one last piece of advice." Valdar's face turned to stone. He knew the man's time was near. The smell alone was a giveaway. Gesturing, Valdar pulled closer. "Your cause…the feelings inside you…you can't bear them forever. Every moment you do—they destroy more of you. Revenge, hate, and remembrance: you must purge them, one way or another, else you'll only weaken, shrivel, and die a worthless husk." He gestured for Valdar to move even closer, and whispered something in his ear. The younger man's eyes went wide.

"We might not have agreed on everything, Valdar, but you were probably the damn finest man I ever served under. Light speed—to you all. May our Dogs…fight till the end…" Rogir sighed, looking up at the stars. "My family is waiting for me. I guess I don't need that whiskey—after—all…" The man's head slumped to Valdar's knees.

Under the starry highland skies, Valdar sat next to the lifeless body of Rogir Helmsworth, as if guarding it and making sure no one reached it until its spirit ascended. He had no sleep that night, nor shed any tears. They'd long since dried up, even his lip trembled and throat hurt. Contemplating the last words of Helmsworth, he felt the scars along his body; the ones that Ellena had bound up after his near-fatal charge, those from his childhood, and the still stitched scar on his face.

Sometime in the middle of the night, a figure found him, and propped down next to him. It was Osra. She'd finally awaken, and come looking for him.

"Valdar…" she whispered, not sure if he was asleep.

"It's good to see a familiar face." He replied, not looking up from the ground.

"I'm still here, and I'll fight by your side as long as necessary. You saved me from the Scourge when the Dogs attacked Corrin's Crossing. I was in one of their dungeons, about to be experimented on along with hundreds of others. Your attack gave us meaning." She picked up his hand and held it between both of hers.

Standing up, Valdar turned his back on her. "Do you know why it is we go on, even as the world around us falls apart?"

"No…" she said, somewhat crestfallen.

He didn't answer.

Ashenvale, Near the Barrow Dens of Moonglade

Tyrande Whisperwind smelled smoke in the wind. There was always smoke now. These past few days had been the first time in a thousand years the acrid stench of smoke floated across Ashenvale. She hated it.

On all fronts the Sentinels had been overwhelmed, if not by the outlanders than by the unending undead or the seemingly invincible Legion. There was no possibility that the Sentinels themselves could defeat all these enemies. They would need the help of the druids.

The druids, taught by Cenarius, were the greatest and wisest among the night elves. Their strength was that of the Land's, and their mind one with all Existence. They were the ones whom had rebuilt civilization after the Invasion 10,000 years ago, and had assured that nature remained in balance. They had cut the vile cancers from night elf society that had been the reason for the Invasion in the first place, exiling the highborne, and chaining those who would see the Legion's return deep underground, forever lost to the world.

The shining image itself of the return of the druids warmed Tyrande's heart, as well as those of many other Sentinels. Many of the druids, whom were mostly men, had lovers in this world, whom awaited their return dearly. When the time came for the druids to awaken, they would often speak of how they roamed the Emerald Dream, side by side with Ysera the Dreamer, thinking, missing, and loving their cherished ones still, even in the perfect, natural world of the Dream. From the southern sands to the dark, northern seas, the druids were the masters and students of Nature.

Tyrande's Sentinels had encamped near the some ruins of the old night elf civilization. Marble pillars, the glyphs in them long since worn away, lay still in the grass, half covered in vine and dirt.

Looking over her base of operations, Tyrande felt her confidence stagger somewhat. There were but five hundred Sentinels that had heeded her call. Where had the great armies of the past fled to? Had that many been killed in the initial attacks, or had the elves slowly declined as the centuries passed?

Keeping her composure, she nodded over to her second, Raene Wolfrunner. "With Cenarius dead, it falls to us to awaken the druids. We must recover the demi-god's horn from the sacred Moonglade. Only its clarion call can awaken the druids from their slumber."

"The huntresses are already scouting the area, Priestess." Raene said in hard tones. She was suffering, that much was clear.

"What is wrong, child?"

"My home—the orcs destroyed it when they first entered Ashenvale. All of my sisters were slain. My mother too." Anger glinted in Raene's eyes.

"Peace unto you, child. You will have your chance to avenge your heritage before this war is over." Tyrande spoke, looking at the rest of the Sentinel army that had assembled. Their strength would be not in numbers, but in surprise and skill.

"Lady Wolfrunner, High Priestess, our huntresses have reported back." A young female warrior spoke, bowing deeply. "A group of orcs have encamped themselves near the only viable ford to the river. Also, the undead are advancing upon the nearby barrow dens. They come in great force. There were waves of them as far as the eye could see. The dens seem abandoned but—"

"There is one druid sleeping within them: _Furion Stormrage._ He is the wisest and most powerful of the druids. He must be warned that the Legion has returned."

"We must hurry if we are to make it to Master Stormrage's den. If the undead overtake us—" Raene was cut off.

"Let us make haste. We will cut through the orc encampment. All our hopes rest of Furion's awakening." The two night elves began to depart. "Raene." Tyrande called. Her subordinate looked back. "It would seem Elune smiles upon you. Your chance for revenge is today." Raene nodded stoically.

Arathi Basin, Alliance Command Gathering

"What the hell do you mean your taking your troops back!?" Tallheart lashed out. Valdar had never seen him like this before.

"The Scourge has an open path to Strom. I need all my forces consolidated to defend my city. I will not let this country's capital fall to a pack of undead. Already they've hit us, and I lost a thousand of my best men pushing them back." Thoras Trollbane said gruffly, sitting heavily in his armor and furs.

"You can't possibly mean that your going to take a quarter of our force with you…the first rule of warfare is not to split your forces in the face of a numerically superior foe. Strom may be little defended, but we are protecting the rest of your country for you." Serath, the 4th Army General hissed.

"You—" Field Marshal Penwright nearly swore at the King.

"Strom has 500 defenders as of now. You have 15,000 of my soldiers, and I need them, and I'll be damned if I let you incompetent fools use them like cattle!" The King shot back, annoyed.

"But the Pact of the Alliance specifically states that you cannot rescind troops that were donated for the Combined Nations Military!" Serath exclaimed.

"Stromgarde's not a part of the Alliance anymore, idiot." Thorr Steelhewer spat.

It was a mess. When the Scourge had broken through Thoradin's Wall, all hell came with it. Now King Trollbane wanted his troops back to protect the capitol: troops that were vitally needed at the frontlines. Already the fight had spread across Stromgarde.

Demons rained from the sky like they had in Lordaeron, and the undead swarmed seemingly everywhere, stretching the Alliance forces thin trying to hold them back. The main center of operations had been set up in the ravine of Arathi Basin, an old resource rich area of Stromgarde. The commanders were frayed at the constant fighting and infighting.

Valdar rubbed his scratchy eyes. He hadn't slept in what seemed like days, and the deep gash on his face still ached and burned, though thanks to Osra's advice of soaking it in alcohol every night, it had managed to not get infected.

"You do realize that if we give you your troops back, sire, that we will be forced to retreat? We can't cover all that ground with 50,000." Tallheart spoke up, trying to calm himself.

"It is a fact I am well aware of, general." Trollbane bristled. "I will link my troops to yours, but I must reinforce Strom, and I do not trust the leadership of the Alliance. After all, great woes were forced upon us after the Second War. You have no winning strategies in mind anyhow. All you are doing is sitting static, trying to hold the undead back. You have all lost your offensive spirit."

"The same to you, King!" someone shouted out. An argument suddenly broke out, Stromgardians shouting at Alliance, and vice versa. The conflict quickly devolved into the past hatreds and prejudices of the countries.

Valdar stared at the flaps of the tent behind everyone. A slight wind picked up, causing the flaps to rustle. Behind, in the inky blue night sky, stars innumerable shone. For a moment, Valdar thought he saw something in the stars.

He stood, and walked towards the flaps. Pushing them open, he stared out at the sky, the distant moon, and the hills beyond. In his mind, overlaying the map of Stromgarde with the night cosmos, something suddenly struck him. With the moon's light blocking out most of the lowest stars save the brightest ones, the ones farther up seemed more numerous. However…

"The Scourge has two objectives in Stromgarde!" he shouted out, trying to quiet the din. The sudden voice of order made the room fall quiet. "…one, to destroy Strom, and two, to secure the Thandol Span so that they may invade the southern continent of Azeroth."

"They cannot leave an enemy behind and go on with all their forces, so to divide ourselves is to divide them, or risk being taken from the rear. They will leave forces to besiege Strom, weakening their main body. If we move to block the Thandol Span, they will be forced to contend with us. We can force them into a pitched battle once again, on our ground of choosing. If we move now, we will have all the time to prepare."

"And what makes you think that you can win against them at the Thandol Span, where there is little defensive ground? We lost to them at Thoradin's Wall for Light's sake! One of the greatest defensive fortifications in the world!" Penwright exploded.

"You'll be forcing us into a bottleneck!" Thorr rolled his eyes back into his head.

"Madness…" someone muttered.

"Lordaeron…and now Stromgarde…it truly is the apocalypse."

Valdar ignored the comments, looking at the stars again as not to forget his inspiration. "The Scourge has shown time that they are a bulky, far too conventional force. They are weak against flanking attacks, and they use brute strength and weight of numbers to attack. Look at the jutting land by the bridges." Smile appeared on both Tallheart and King Trollbane's faces. It was perfect: a perfect bottleneck, to both sides.

"There is no way they can hit our flanks. For them, the only way is forward. We can split ourselves. We've already secured the support of Ironforge, so Dun Algaz shouldn't be far behind. We can send couriers to them. Surely they can't ignore the undead breathing down their backs. They'll have to help us or face utter destruction. This position is the place where we can finally strike a major blow against the undead. General Tallheart, what was it you said not long ago about the undead being far more brash than usual?"

"I commented on the fact that their new leader of theirs, Haures, is much more impatient than whatever necromancers were commanding them before. His main force is all concentrated, with little to nothing behind it."

"So if we can defeat the undead, we can push all the way back to Dalaran without being opposed!" Steelhewer said ecstatically.

"But a Scourge army of this size has never been defeated!" another shouted out. Just as the man had spoken, a flash of light erupted in the tent. In its wake, three royal purple velvet robes walked forward, led by a gray haired woman in a snow white mock.

"Leaders of the Alliance and Stromgarde, I am Belinda Aalar, High Seat of the Council of Air. I come representing the Kirin Tor." The woman walked straight up to the quorum and stood among them, all eyes upon her. "Indeed, your plan is a sound one, young commander, but it is impossible to defeat the Scourge _and _their demonic allies without magical support."

"And you're here to provide that?" Valdar asked.

"Indeed. Though Dalaran has fallen, the Kirin Tor are not defeated. Many of us were slain in battle, and many more afterwards, but we will continue to fight on. It is our duty to safeguard this world from the netherly dimensions and their denizens."

"Wonderful, more wizards." Penwright said disgustedly. "All we need is some good old fashioned swordsmanship."

"Watch your tongue, Field Marshal. These wizards may well be our salvation. So how many of you might we be expecting?" Serath inquired.

"Us three, and perhaps some more later." Aalar replied passively.

"_Three?!_ You expect us to turn the tide of battle with _three _wizards!?" Penwright screamed.

"Silence!" Thoras Trollbane cried out, bringing sudden order.

"Before you complain, we have with us both ill and goodly tidings." Belinda Aalar announced. "The power of Stormwind nears, and should arrive within the week, unless the demons move to check them. There is your good news. There have been two great battles in the north. One at Northdale, with your 4th Army, General Serath, and one at an obscure town, little known and surrounded by the wilderness. A place called Darrowshire…"

The Moonglade Borders, Kalimdor 

The orcs blocked the river entrance to the Moonglade Forest with force. The only other way to get into the isolated land was either through the thick underbrush of north eastern Ashenvale via the continent spanning Gold Road, which the undead occupied heavily, or over the towering mountains.

In the distance, Tyrande could make out Moonglade. It was a magical, sylvan wood draped in perpetual night. Long considered holy by the night elves, it was a place for their people, as well as nature, to flourish. Black tigers and grizzly brown bears roamed its forests. Moonglade was home to the druids in awakening, and now in slumber. The barrow dens all resided within the Moonglade forest, though spread out and far between.

Tyrande resolved, she would not let Moonglade fall. It was a place touched by Elune herself. In the silvery moonlight, the night elves crept up on the orcs slowly, many of the greenskinned aberrations sleeping on torn rugs on the ground.

Silently, with cloth covering their faces and padded soles to muffle the noises of their movement, the Sentinels crept out from under the trees into the opening. The only sound in the area came from the snoring orcs, their crackling campfires, or the distant talk of sentries.

Slipping out knives, the night elves knelt down beside the sleeping orcs. In single, swift motion, they cut at the orc's throats, holding their head's back and mouth's closed to keep them from screaming or convulsing and waking the others.

Waiting at the head of a dozen huntresses, Tyrande patted her frostsaber's head, keeping it calm as it smelled the blood wafting in the air. The night elves continued, slaying dozens of orcs before they even had a chance to fight, when suddenly, one Sentinel botched its assassination, and the orc, its throat split, shot up screaming and gurgling.

The remaining orcs suddenly noticed that they were under attack and awoke, grasping for weapons and armor while others, the smaller peons, took to flight. Instantly, a hundred arrows found a hundred marks. Archers, whom had been waiting in the trees, suddenly shifted positions, knowing it was foolhardy to ever fire two arrows from the same place.

Tyrande led her sortie out of the forest and ran down all the orcs that insisted on running away. Not one of the greenskinned bastards would escape. With their scythed shurikens and falchon blades, the orcs were run down like the pigs they were. While others stood and fought, their effort was not nearly enough to slow the attack. Many of the fleeing orcs tried to cross the river, but were caught up in the current and were swept away.

Summoning the powers of Elune, Tyrande called out for a ghost owl, and as if magic, one was meshed into existence through the ambient spirits of the forest. Letting the owl fly, Tyrande spied that not far away the undead had advanced dangerously close to Stormrage's barrow den. Leaving the battle behind, Tyrande and her huntresses sped onwards, crossing over the raging ford thanks to the strength of their saber's legs.

Through the overgrown pathway they treaded, until they encountered it: the Horn of Cenarius. The horn, a huge, wooden spiraled cone hovered above an altar, a face to the likening of Cenarius carved upon it. The gnarled wood was from the holy tree of Nordrassil itself, and the sight of it alone sent shivers down Tyrande's spine.

Dismounting, Tyrande slowly approached. With the blow of the horn, Furion Stormrage, the leader of the Cenarion Circle druids, and her one, true love, would be awakened. She felt her heart flutter as she approached the Horn. It had been one thousand years since she'd last kissed Furion goodbye before he returned to the Slumber once more.

In the distance, the sound of the Scourge's hacking grew ever louder. Before she could grasp the horn in her hands, a sudden light burst forth from the canyon wall before them. Three ghostly images of Cenarius appeared: the Primal of Fire, Ice, and Lightning. They were the guardians of the horn.

"_Corruption runs through the realm, and invaders have set the forests ablaze. All whom defile this glade must be slain." _The primals spoke together.

"Elune forgive me for what I must do." Tyrande whispered. She couldn't believe that in the end, she would have to end up fighting Cenarius' guardians themselves. Drawing her bow, she prepared herself for the fight. Just then however, a voice called out.

"Primals! Return to the Dream, for my Father has need of you there!" The rich, deep tone belonged to only one. Remulos, son of Cenarius, appeared from the forest. The half-night elf, half-stag glanced at Tyrande before moving towards the horn, clomping on the stony ground with his hooves.

The Primals dissipated. "What is happening, Tyrande. Your Sentinels are failing in their duty. This is the fourth time that the Primals have awoken. They are not pleased with the recent activities, both in Moonglade and beyond. I can hear axes, and smell death. I taste corruption, and feel the Legion's presence once again." Remulos said.

"Indeed the Legion has returned. They guide as well the undead, whom are marching towards the barrow dens as we speak. I must awaken Stormrage. Grant me access to your father's horn, I beg of you." Tyrande pleaded with the demi-god's son.

Remulos looked down at Tyrande, took a deep breath, and seemed to sample it for a moment. He then turned, took the horn from its resting place, and held it out in both hands. "I cannot sound this horn. Only Cenarius my father, or the kaldorei in desperate need may blow on it. Go now, Tyrande. I sense more incursions upon the Moonglade, and they are not from night elves." Remulos departed as swiftly as he had appeared, leaving Tyrande with the horn.

Taking a deep breath, the night elf priestess blew into its mouthpiece. The horn resonated a deep brass sound that echoed across all Moonglade. Deep within the barrow dens, a single figure stirred. The images of the Emerald Dream resided, and his spirit returned to its long lost shell.

Slowly, the figure cast off the dirt and cobwebs upon him, as feeling returned to his legs and arms. Though blurry, sight was quickly returning, and the man felt for the edges of his abode. With the crackling of an unused body, Furion Stormrage sat up, and stepped out of his sarcophagus. The horn had sounded.

Before reaching to top of the long spiral staircase, his body had returned to its previous strength. The light grew and grew as he neared the surface, and suddenly, sunlight burst upon the world. Squinting, Stormrage emerged from the barrow den and smelled the smoke in the air. Anger began to rise from his stomach like bile.

"The horn has sounded, and I have come, as promised. I smell the stench of decay and corruption in our land. That angers me greatly." Furion Stormrage stood tall, emerging from the place that had been his shelter for a thousand years. Not far off, he saw a tree fall. Behind it, ghoulish creatures that seemed to be half rotting seeped through. He could sense that behind the thin barrier of trees, a great force of these undead lay in wait.

"Come forth, you defenders of old. Crush these invaders as you did in ages past." Furion held out his arms, stretching them to the moon, and awoke the spirits of the trees. The forest itself suddenly seemed to come alive, the trees uprooting and stretching. Hundreds, no perhaps thousands of mighty trees began to move around Furion, who remained passively still, and attacked the undead invaders.

Lair of the Excubitores

"Just who the hell are you?!" Cyrus slammed his fist on the wall. The arch demon had referred to the Proprietor as Dragias, even though all the tomes, all his research, and all the other Excubitores had agreed that Dragias had long since perished.

Rubbing his head, his thoughts flashed back to Silvermoon. It had been a long time since he had seen home, and it ached his heart to know it was no longer there. He could remember it all so well that it almost felt like he was still in it, though even without seeing the ruins, he knew that it could never return to the way it was before. The High Elves too, probably wouldn't survive long either. Not many had survived. It was said that every single person in Quel'thalas had been slain by the Scourge. His anger was doubled, his sadness deepened.

The Excubitores were right, he'd told himself. Even through all of their dangerous methods and questionable tactics, their overall goal was correct…or at least what he'd been told about so far. Though he wanted in his heart to support the Excubitores and become one of them, something nagged at his gut.

Stomping out of his cell, he went searching for the Proprietor. Through the dim hallways of the Excubitores lair, he went through the gigantic library, which contained tens of thousands of dusty texts, librams, lexicons, and maps. Through the Halls of Penumbrance he marched, witnessing the flitting streams of raw magic move out of his way. The home of the Excubitores was gigantic, more akin to a small city than a hideout, and finding one of the few dozen warriors of his order took time, unless they were called upon. It had been taught to him by his mentor, Allurys Edron, that these ancient catacombs had been dug up possibly by the other faction of gods that had imprisoned the Old One. In essence, this entire place was a jail.

After walking for a long while, he finally encountered one of the Excubitores. "The Proprietor is in the main chamber, communing."

"With what?" Cyrus had asked.

The Excubitor did not answer. Cyrus proceeded to the main chamber, its great walls pulsing purple and then green, then red and blue. In the center of the room was the Old One, its tentacles slowly moving back and forth in a rhythm, its massive eyes half lidded. Next to it, stood the Proprietor, with a hand up to its flesh, whispering something in some forgotten tongue. He suddenly stopped as he felt Cyrus' spiritual flow disrupting the air, but did not move.

"Who are you and what are you really doing with your Excubitores?" Cyrus inquired, walking up to him, staff hidden in his thick cloak.

"Do you remember your lessons, Cyrus? The one war where these gods, these Old Gods were defeated in a war between the deities of this world, and those of the Void?"

"Yes. But I still don't know exactly what it is you mean to do, Proprietor. Or was it…Dragias?"

The Proprietor took a step away from the body of the Old One, and turned, his eyes still closed. "So you heard what Haures had to say, is it? How do you know he is not lying, or mistaking me for Dragias? After all, he was an elf too."

"Do not take me for an idiot. You two were alone. There are more elves in the Excubitores, but he singled you out. He knew exactly who you were."

"Ah, so it seems you have learned the truth before you should have. Did you know, Cyrus, that the Old One and us have the same objective? In the yesteryears, when the Old One was imprisoned and stripped of its power, that it swore revenge on all those who warred against it."

"Sounds like something a mortal would do." Cyrus said, glancing at the behemoth in front of him. He couldn't comprehend how this massive lump of tentacles was a god, at least until he felt for the massive array of Ley-lines that ran through this place.

"One thing that neither you, nor most of this world knows, is that the arch-master of the Burning Legion is one of those gods. He is what the Old One names a Titan: Sargeras. Sargeras is a god, Cyrus. Mortals cannot defeat him." He had never seen him act out like this before.

"When I gave my life to revive the Old One, it in turn revived me. I was brought back from the world of the dead, and was taught by this Old One all about the Legion. I know of Haures, Archimonde, and Kil'jaeden. They are Sargeras' lackeys, but in his absence, have begun to secretly war between one another. Each of them seeks to overcome the other, subtly, and replace Sargeras. This is the time, for as the invade Azeroth, they bring themselves to us, to fight on _our _terms. You see, it was we who weakened the temporal rifts between our world and the Twisting Nether, allowing the Legion to invade."

"You WHAT?!" Cyrus called out. His voice echoed across the walls of the chamber for a long while.

"With the power of the replenished Excubitores using all the might of the magical realms at our disposal, plus the help of the Old One, we can finally strike a devastating blow at the Legion. We will fully complete what we have worked for all these centuries: the Old One's full revival, and releasing. Its power is far beyond that of any of the Legion Lords."

"You bastard! You allowed the Legion into this world!?"

"Yes, it was partially my doing. The Legion had been intending to invade this world for centuries, but I simply made things easier for them, as did the Scourge."

"How can you even _think _of letting this beast loose on the world! Its power would utterly destroy it!" Cyrus exclaimed. He couldn't comprehend everything that had just been told. More than inadvertently, the Excubitores had allowed the Legion into the world.

"Indeed, the Old One wishes to break free of all constraints and reclaim its cup of dominance over this world. It cannot hide these thoughts from me, but we have prepared for millennia. We _can _control it. We WILL control it. With the Old One under our power, all things are possible." The Proprietor moved menacingly closer to Cyrus.

"You will not challenge me, little one. I am a vessel for the Old One's power, plus everything else I have mastered in five thousand years."

"To defeat the Legion at all costs…that is your credo. The destruction of Azeroth, whether by the Legion or by the Old One…how far are you willing to go?" Cyrus hissed.

"As far as it takes." The Proprietor replied.

"There is a fine line that you are crossing!" Cyrus yelled.

"The means justify the ends, Cyrus Faim'las!" A sudden gust of wind picked up the Proprietor—no, Dragias, and flung him towards Cyrus. From his cloak, he produced the azure crystal sword that he'd stabbed Haures with, slicing at Cyrus.

Cyrus took several steps backwards, pulling out his staff, the Pillar of Quel'thalas, and conjured a ball of icy magic to bind Dragias in place. As the magic flew through the air, Dragias lifted his sword and simply swiped the blast away.

Cyrus created a seal with his left hand, twirling the staff about so that he could reach the crystal. Slamming his hand onto the crystal's tip, he began to extract its stored power. Extracting the compressed magic, it appeared as a string of shimmering purple. The magic began to form into a gigantic elemental. The elemental held its hands over its head, gathering power from the Old God's ley nexus, and tossed itself at the leader of the Excubitores. Dragias held the sword straight up, grasped it with both hands, and suddenly let out a crushing force. The air itself of the room began to feel heavy, as the massive elemental and the excubitor faced off. Dragias gave off a blue aura as the elemental approached quickly, and suddenly jumped straight at the mouth of the magical being, driving himself straight through its head and out the other side. As he emerged, steaming from the interaction of mana properties from both his sword and the elemental's nature, the creature behind him collapsed, exploding into a thousand stars of magic.

Dragias dashed forward, slicing at Cyrus. Jumping backwards, the elf barely dodged the blow. In midair, before Cyrus could even land, Dragias appeared behind him and delivered an incredible kick that threw the elf into a wall. Rubble poured down on Cyrus as he struggled to get back up.

Looking up he saw Dragias, face filled with pure malice, hold out his hands. In one, he conjured a ball of green flame, fel magic, and in the other, a shining, golden light…the same holy powers that fueled the spells of paladins and priests. He slowly began to move his hands together.

_He's combining two completely opposite spectrums of magic! How is that even possible!? What is this man!?_

Trapped by the rubble and unable to move, Cyrus called out. "What are you doing!? If you fuse two powers of the opposite polarity, you could destroy this entire chamber!"

"For all your years, you have nothing to show for them. Behold the power of the Excubitores."

Light, and then darkness obscured Cyrus' vision.

_(Authors note: Hey everyone. Sorry for the long wait, but I've had lots of finals to study for and whatnot. I'm taking 18 credit hours this semester which [by standards] is a lot, so I ended up having 5 tests, a huge essay to write, and a play to memorize. Anyway, my hard finals are over and done with, and I have a few more coming up this week, but after that I've got Winter Break so hopefully I'll get caught up on all that writing then._

_-VampiricAnt: The monster Tyrande and the Sentinels fought at the beginning was the secret hydralisk Easter egg. That part was actually kind of funny to write, cuz I went back and watched some old starcraft youtube movies to get inspired._

_-Bien: Thanks for your continuing loyalty to the story! I'm going to update my profile with the new info later today or tomorrow so you can get all that stuff there._

_Alright guys and girls, that's all for now. Thanks for sticking with me. We're more than 3/4th's through the story!_

_Omegatrooper)_


	38. Chapter 37: Low Tide

**Chapter** **37: Low Tide **

The Thandol Span Front

The wave of undead warriors smashed against the shield wall. A year ago, these men would've run at the mere sight of them, but now they were proven veterans: every last one of them.

Though things might've been going well at the battle for the Thandol Span, according to reports, Strom was once against under siege. At least the undead were split. There was disturbing news however that Haures, the leader of the enemy, was here.

Walking up and down the trench line, Valdar inspected his troops. They seemed bedraggled, but high in spirits. The men of the other armies however, were in dreadful moods. Soon, the greatest test of the Alliance's troops would begin.

"How's it with the 4th?" Valdar asked. Thorek Ghent walked up to him, covered in mud from head to toe.

"They boys be under mighty dark clouds after hearing about the loss of their comrades at Northdale." The mages had come several days ago, bearing the heavy news that the contingent of 4th Army soldiers whom had been left to defend the Northdale Pocket was utterly annihilated. And then there was the tale of Darrowshire…

It had spread across the realm like wildfire apparently. Thousands were taking up the battle cry of Darrowshire in remembrance of the brave city-stead that had fought like lions to the last man, even when cut off from the world and surrounded for months.

The undead line broke, and his men stood still, tending to the wounded. It had just been a small skirmish, but the undead army they'd fought at Thoradin's Wall was just over the horizon, approaching quickly. They would arrive before noon.

Assembling the Alliance armies in a string in the valley, a line of 15,000 would bear the brunt of the Scourge. Assembling in a triangular shape the density of troops, the Alliance right wing would swing outwards with the remaining 20,000 infantry while cavalry screened the flanks. Due to the terrain's fog of war, the Scourge would be unable to read the deployment of the armies. The best of the Alliance's soldiers would hold the left. He would command the encirclement.

One last part of the strategy implored upon making the army look as weak as possible, though Valdar already knew that that was already accomplished. Defeat after defeat, and retreat after retreat had sucked away at the Alliance's moral. Men were deserting in great numbers, and the only troops that seemed able to function at their peak were his Dogs.

In any case, the Scourge, under Haures and most of its other commanders displayed little care of tactics. They simply rammed their numbers into opponents and allowed their fear generating attacks to route the enemy.

_Not this time though…this time we'll have victory. _

Though it would be hard if things went the way they would. The dwarves of Dun Algaz had announced their intention to support the Alliance's battle, and had marched north with reinforcements from Ironforge. They were still marching up the gigantic, incredible edifice that was the Thandol Span, a massive set of stone and iron bridges that were more than a hundred feet across _each._ Their numbers, a little over 8,000, would greatly accommodate the drained human and elven troops.

The dwarves' vanguard, under the direct command of King Magni Bronzebeard rode by the bedraggled Alliance troops on giant grey rams that were jeweled and ornate, bearing bards of the finest metals and alloys. The dwarvish flags fluttered in the breeze. The Alliance soldiers could only stare at the opulence of the dwarves as they marched by. Next up was their artillery: more than 40 batteries of cannon pulled by muscular, tamed mountain brown bears. After came regiments of riflemen and warriors, marching in close knit squares, not daring to avert their gazes forward.

Valdar could sense the palpable air of shock, joy, and strangeness of the procession and its effect on the bystanders. Within the hour the dwarves were ready to continue their march. Together, the augmented and boosted Alliance Army would march forward three miles to a designated zone where they would put on airs to make it seem as if the battle was pitched.

_War is nothing but a game of deception. _

"Sir, the Generals have reported in. All seems ready." A courier announced as he trotted up to Valdar.

Osra appeared from within a throng of troops and put her helm on silently. Thorek smiled. "Bout that time, eh?"

"Let's do it." Valdar said. "ALL TROOPS—FORWARD!"

The masses of men and women began to move, slowly at first, and then rumbling onward faster and faster. Soon, the ground itself trembled before their presence, a body of tens of thousands with one mind, one goal, strung together by hope.

Lair of the Excubitores

"Cyrus, your mind is still young, even if you have lived these hundreds of years." Dragias' voice echoed.

Cyrus blinked. The wall around him was gone: literally pulverized into dusk. Slowly pulling himself up, he grasped his shoulder and yelped in pain. Blood ran down his robe, staining the snow white a deep crimson. He'd narrowly escaped the blast by teleporting a short distance, using what energy he had to do so.

"You twisted, malevolent fuck!" Cyrus called out. "You've got the blood of hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions on your hands! Entire cultures, peoples, and races have died because of your brainwashed delusions."

"Don't think that power, or the Old Ones are guiding my will. No, been the same vision since the beginning. It's just that in your reality, you cannot comprehend truths beyond the threshold of the constraints of this world." Dragias lazily paced towards Cyrus.

"How can you say that when you don't know what its like out there!? For the people who are suffering out there now: all those who have died and all those who will forever bear the scars of your misguided effort to bring order to things far beyond your control!"

"I have seen the unending cosmos, the vast expanses in which much more than our pitiful, meaningless lives exist. This is a war between all creation, and utter oblivion. Life is not as grey as you might think. In waging this war, all is black and white: You fight for the universe, or you hinder it, Cyrus. Realities are simply the constructs of our minds, obstacles we voluntarily place to keep order. Your blocked minds turn everything that forces change in your lives to pain. You can either use that to free yourself from 'reality', or drive yourself further into the madness of a closed world."

"I've seen reality more in the past year than in the rest of my hundreds of years of life alone. Pain, loss, and hatred are all things brought about by war, but there is something else, Dragias…" The Proprietor's eyebrow perked upward.

"Hope." Cyrus uttered. "I've seen it in the eyes of the refugees, the children, even those who have lost everything: Hope for the future, hope for those around them, hope for everything. It binds us together, and in the face of even evils like the Legion and Scourge, a front united by hope…will stand stalwart."

"You think yourself ascended? You think you've grown beyond us all? You've just given up on hope. The moment your grand ambition threw out the consideration of lives is the moment you lost yourself. All you care about…all you truly want, is to end your own, personal suffering. Don't think that by destroying both yourself and the Legion that you'll justify the crimes you've committed to get that far. Your power is nothing but chaos!"

"Power without a master—is chaos!" Dragias stared up at the distant ceiling. "I have found the values that bring mastery to chaos."

"Like water, I can turn on and off the power of the Ley Lines at the four corners of the world. With that, we will place the pieces on the board, and when the time is right…cause a catastrophic implosion of the magical grid of this world, scouring it of everything. It won't just end there though."

"The backlash will affect the Twisting Nether where the Legion resides as well through the open barriers. They're own gateways will become their undoing. The Nether itself will collapse. The devils of hell will be washed away by a torrent of their own power. Truly…something the Gods of a thousand cultures would approve of. Azeroth will be a vessel of destruction to all unnatural and unholy things." Dragias lookedat the heavens. "We will save all creation."

Cyrus stared at Dragias for a long while. "You are insane…you have heard nothing I have said."

"No, Cyrus. I am free. Free from the obstruction and flotsam of a pitiful mortal mind. I see things more clearly than ever before."

"Master Proprietor!" an Excubitor suddenly appeared, flashing into existence before the two combatants. "Haures of the Legion has appeared before the Alliance armies once again near the Thandol Span in Stromgarde."

"Splendid. The humans did well in luring him out again. Very well. Prepare the Excubitores, Seras. The final moments are at hand!" He turned to Cyrus as the excubitor disappeared. "Whether you like it or not, Cyrus, events are turning out exactly as read on the Road of Fates. The Augurs have seen things come to pass this way, and so they shall. Farewell, Cyrus." Dragias turned and let a menacing smile out of his passive demeanor.

"Augurs…?" Cyrus murmured. Suddenly, before he could react, Dragias had picked up a small pebble, set it alight, and launched it toward the elf. It shot straight towards Cyrus' heart.

Cyrus gasped for air. The small hole in his chest had punctured his lung, and thanks to his movement had barely, barely missed his heart. Blood seeped from his mouth and the wound as he struggled to stay on his feet.

"Still alive?" Dragias muttered as his Excubitores filed in. "Well, we'll be off now, Cyrus. You can die here, or if you have the mettle to still challenge me, meet me again upon Haures' field." He turned toward the square formation of the twenty Excubitores.

"How can you do it? How can you challenge a GOD Dragias?! You said it yourself! We are mortals!" Cyrus spat a gob of blood.

Dragias whirled around. His cloak unfastening, he unsheathed his crystalline sword pointing it straight between Cyrus' eyes. "This blade is was cooled when forged in the very Waters of Eternity that provided this world with the primal magics that have since become the fields of energy you know today. As an artifact of such power, it has become an artificial Ley-line capable of harnessing the latent energy of this entire world. This is our check-mate. This is _Kaldaei._"

Suddenly, Dragias and his followers disappeared in a blink of light. They had left for their final battle.

"Damnit!" Cyrus cursed. His chest was on fire, and he could barely breathe, let alone conjure a magic spell. The Arathi Highlands were far away and a big place. There was no way he could search Dragias out in his state.

But he had to stop Dragias…the lunatic would destroy the entire world! He had made his mind up. Even if it meant the destruction of the Legion, he couldn't let the plan go ahead. There was too much at risk.

_You elevate and isolate yourself with your power, and before you know it, life becomes nothing to you. It's the very notion you fight for that makes you arrogant. _

It suddenly hit him. Of all the things he had learned in the Excubitores, and of all the things he had been taught to let go of, his principles were the first thing. Smiling, he looked up at the half-sleeping Old God.

"I'm going to need a ride…" he spoke, lifting himself to his feet even as the blood poured out his chest.

Moonglade, Near the Druids of the Talon Barrow Dens

"It has been more than a thousand years since our hearts last touched, Tyrande. I thought of your every moment I roamed the Emerald Dream." Furion Stormrage spoke, holding the hand of his one true love. They had reunited at a small waterfall near the glade where the undead had been driven away by the spirits of the forest.

"My heart rejoices to see you again Furion, but I would not have dared to awaken you unless the need was urgent." Tyrande replied. Furion noted her agitated behavior. Letting go of her hand, he gave her a quick peck on the cheek before moving towards the waterfall and closing his eyes.

"In the Dream I felt our land being corrupted, just as if it were my own body. You were right to awaken me."

"The Burning Legion has returned, Furion. Cenarius is dead, and outlanders roam through our most sacred vales."

"As was foretold…" Stormrage moved into the icy waters, his feathery cloak floating at the surface, dragged forward by the water's current. They had just melted and come down from the Winterspring Mountains, the area having experienced its first summer temperatures in hundreds of years. "No doubt Archimonde will make his way to Hyjal Summit and attack the Nordrassil, the World Tree. If he succeeds in draining the Tree's energies, this world will be doomed. He will be his master reborn, a creature of such unthinkable malice and strength that even the dragon aspects would quiver in fear."

"My only thought were to awaken you and the druids. The druids of the Talon sleep at the end of this valley. If we awaken them, we may have a chance to stop Archimonde and his demons."

The sounds of fighting erupted over the waterfall's ledge. Near the fall's base, a small contingent of metal clad warriors combated a group of undead.

"So, the outlanders battle the undead as well. Ahh, they could be useful allies in the fight against Archimonde." Furion observed.

Tyrande's face instantly turned sour. "They are mongrels and nothing more! They are responsible for Cenarius' death! I will be damned before I stand with them."

"Perhaps you are right my love, perhaps not. In any case, we must make haste to the druids of the Talon." The two left the water's edge and traveled back to the wood. Within, several ancients accompanied a strike force of Sentinels.

"As we speak, my warriors fight on near a dozen battlefields against outlander, undead, demon, and any which combination. The Sentinels cannot keep this up any longer, Furion." Tyrande explained.

"Indeed. We will have but one chance to strike a truly incapacitating and fatal blow to the Legion, but we must gather all our allies first." Furion replied.

Moving into the lowland of Moonglade the Sentinels soon encountered a pack of furbolgs, moving lamely around a water well. Furion could sense immediately that something was not right. Approaching, Tyrande gasped in horror.

The furbolgs had been maimed and mutated almost beyond recognition. The biggest one, probably what had been their chief in days gone, seemed to be missing his right arm. In fact, upon closer inspection, the arm was still intact, but hung dead and limply at his side. From its rotten flesh protruded dozens of barbed tentacles. His face was contorted and half melted, the pink muscles underneath his forehead showing. The horrors only grew worse with each furbolg.

"Impossible! I knew this tribe!" Tyrande stared weapons carried by each of the warriors. It was a long, hickory spear, made only from a certain part of Ashenvale wood that only a single tribe of furbolgs utilized.

"They are beyond saving. Close your eyes, my love. I will deal with it." Furion spoke softly, stepping out in front of the Sentinel group. The blighted furbolgs moved closer, limping.

"No…I will fight them too. They are now one with the corruption of the Legion, and must be cleansed. We must put an end to their curse. _Andu falanore!_" Tyrande said, composing herself. Furion watched his lover as she attacked her former friends without hesitation.

_You've changed Tyrande. You have little mercy. I suppose that is what ten thousand years vigil can do to one, but you, and your Sisters, have taken up the cup yourselves. _Furion thought with both pride, and sorrow.

The Arathi Highlands

It was about to begin.

The sun shone forth. The air was humid and sticky. The highland grass had grown to its fullest, and would soon be subjected to the harsh summer rays, dying.

The combined Alliance Army prepared itself, the Dogs of War on the far right, prepared to lead the surging charge. The Scourge had emerged, formations of skeletal pikemen, abominations, screaming banshees, clouds of gargoyles and even the surviving frostwyrms from the Battle of Thoradin's Wall. Though estimated to be at only two thirds strength due to their siege of Strom, it was still a fearsome sight.

Valdar rode forward between the lines of billmen and spears, Osra and Ghent flanking him. He watched stone-faced at the Scourge drew up to confront them. In his mind, he wondered if the mysterious mages that had shown up at the Wall would appear again to fight with them. Waves of Ironforge and Aerie Peak gryphon riders emerged from the hills to confront the enemy.

Waiting, the Alliance simply stood as the undead marched forward. Lines of Scourge archers rushed forward, taking long distance volleys at the Alliance. As the thousands strong Scourge formations entered into range, the more than 200 dwarven cannon fired, shaking the very bedrock of the hilly landscape. The explosive and bouncing shots cut vicious shreds through the Scourge's lines. It was nearly impossible to miss, even from the distance due to the sheer amount of undead.

White clouds of sulfuric smelling smoke rose as the cannons recoiled time and time again. Soon, the hills were engulfed in clouds, and with the visibility reduced to near zero, the gunners had to stop firing. When the clouds dissipated, a sight that no army that had fought the Scourge had yet seen appeared. Demons...horrific new demons of all shapes and sizes; voidterrors, the wrathguard, shivarra, and a thousand others. Most of the demons that had been seen so far were the flaming comets. Those infernal beings that descended from the sky as if the judgement of gods.

Some of the men at the front looked at each other with uncertainty. The Scourge had brought a new factor into the game of deception. The mass rippling magic, gnashing teeth, gleaming claws, slavering mouths, and flaming eyes began to run uphill along with the abominations, not stopping even as bullet holes from the riflemen riddled their bodies. Blue, purple, and black blood poured from their wounds, leaving a gruesome and slippery trail behind, but the blood lusted monsters wouldn't stop. Behind them the entire Scourge from advanced.

The faces of his soldiers now wary and frightened, Valdar shook his head. They had faced worse. Dismounting, he grabbed the Alliance of Lordaeron battle standard from the first corps' flag bearer. Stepping forward, in front of the rest of the Alliance between the two armies, he looked back.

For a moment there was silence, and not even the shouting of the oncoming invaders could break the gaze of thousands upon Valdar. He held up the blue and gold flag, letting it unravel in the wind.

"FOR DARROWSHIRE!" he shouted until his voice cracked. With disbelief at first, there was quiet. One by one, the entire front line picked up the call, and then the army itself. The right surged forward.

Western Moonglade, Kalimdor

The corruption had gotten worse as the Sentinels pushed on. The very land itself was now under a sickening pall. The trees had withered and turned to black, spiky mirrors of themselves. Even the very earth itself was now rooted in death. The soil had turned grey and was filled with corpse maggots. Wildlife was scarce, and what they did encounter was dying, dead, or corrupted.

Furion looked on in silent rage. It would take years for the forest to recover even with the help of the druids, and never without them. He remembered once the glittering metropolises of the night elves, the casual reliance on magic to make everyday life easy. It was that sinful and bloated society that had led to the invasion of the Legion, and now perhaps even this one.

_Our sins haunt us even ten thousand years later. _His heart grieved for all they had lost, and all that they were about to lose, for in the small of his mind, he knew what had to be done, though he told it not to a living soul. Stormrage had taught hundreds, if not thousands of druids, and knew more than just the arts of druidism. His strength came instead from the incredible wisdom and years of life he had amassed.

The outlanders had established firm bases in the forest, fighting together, if uneasily, against the undead and demons that roamed around. From what he could gather from the wilds, Furion had been able to figure out that the outlanders had come from far off, perhaps not even Kalimdor, and that there was no love between them. The term 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' applied to them. He also learned that the undead were named the Scourge by these outlanders, and that they indeed did serve the Legion, which was gathering its forces to attack undoubtedly Mount Hyjal.

The Sentinels were approaching the barrow dens. As they did, Furion placed his hand on the ground and felt the greatest source of the corruption just ahead.

"Forgive me, but there is something I must do before we awaken the druids of the Talon." He said. The ancient druid suddenly split from the path they walked, and entered deep into the corruption.

Suddenly, he spotted a treant. The poor ent was corrupted itself, its noble form twisted and bent. Flanking it on either side were nightmarish, and familiar figures: satyrs.

"Lord Tichondrious commanded us to kill anyone attempting to enter this place, and we shall." The smaller satyr spoke insidiously, slavering over itself.

The satyrs: night elves whom had willingly given themselves up to the Legion in return for beyond-normal powers. Originally they had been the highborne converts most willing and greedy for magic. The Legion had worked them over and over, and finally changed their form so hideously that they appeared little like night elves any more, and more like the demons they had accepted into their weakling hearts.

"It pains me to know that you once called yourselves night elves." Furion declared. The Sentinels had begun to catch up to him.

More satyrs and corrupted treants, and even some corrupted ancients began to appear. It was a terrible, terrible sight. Furion sighed. The spectacle before him represented everything wrong with mortal thought. They were the damned that had sold themselves. Of all the things the night elves had done wrong in the past, Furion saw the satyrs and those they took with them as the greatest and most hideous of all embarrassments.

"As repentance for our faults as a people, we bear the pain of killing those we once called brothers and sisters. We must do so, because we will not allow these threats to endanger us, or the world that has fostered us, any longer!" Furion shouted out. From within his body, an emerald light shone forth, seeping into the land and creatures and plants, dead and alive. Instantly the soil seemed to replenish, and sunlight pushed its way through the smoke. Plants began to grow rapidly. The satyrs looked around in confusion and astonishment.

The accelerated plants kept growing, becoming taller than the night elves themselves. Wispy spirits of the forest began to fly from all directions into the trees, inhabiting them and creating new ancients. Together, Furion's druid allies and the Sentinel warriors purged the satyr base with ease, ending the corruption of Moonglade in one fell swoop, for the Legion had already moved on.

Leaving the desecrated plain, Furion, Tyrande, and the Sentinels approached the barrow dens of the druids of the Talon. Moving down an aisle that had once been used for processions and long since fallen into disrepair, Furion spotted the barrow dens, nestled in the branches of tall trees and carved into the nooks of the mountain base.

"Come forth druids of the Talon! Let the storm crows fly once again upon the winds of war!" Furion called out, blowing a deep breath into the Horn of Cenarius. The deep bass resonance emanated through the wood and stone of the forest, sending a message between the worlds of the living, and those of Ysera the Dreamer.

After minutes of silence, the caws of crows and ravens could be heard. From within the barrow dens, dozens, perhaps a hundred screaming crows emerged, flying high into the sky and stretching their unused wings. One descended and landed before Furion. In a swirl of druidic magic, the crow morphed into a night elf, who bowed deeply.

"_Ishnu ala, _my brethren. Kalimdor has need of your powers once again, for the hour of doom is at hand." Furion spoke.

"We are yours to command, Shan'do Stormrage." The druid said, bowing even deeper.

"And now, my friends, we must delve deep into these mountains to arouse the druids of the Claw, my final disciples." Furion announced, pointing to the ornate gateway nearby that led to a series of huge underground caverns. "Within that place, the druids of the Claw hibernate."

"Very well, my love. Let us awaken those of the Claw, and battle with full force the Legion once again." Tyrande said, leading the way.

Furion looked again at the gate, and felt a sinking feeling within, for he knew what dwelt deep in the abyss of that place. Though he doubted he would see it, the thought gnawed at him, and even a being so powerful as Malfurion Stormrage, felt some doubt about entering the Caverns of Ala'klra.

Druidism in Night Elf Society

In the wake of the apocalyptic War of the Ancients, Malfurion Stormrage, first and greatest student of Cenarius the Earthwarden Ancient began to teach his druidic skills to those night elves willing to obey his teachings.

As the highborne and their magical ways were slowly outlawed, and then exiled, druidism became the central pillar of power amongst the night elves. The tenets of druidism were widely accepted as the laws of the night elves thereafter, even to the point where the night elves left most of their remaining cities and villages.

Now a people that mostly wandered throughout the forests of northern Kalimdor, the night elves communed with nature and reclaimed the noblest of their aspects, while discarding their most corrupt.

With the prospects of peace looking up, the druids agreed with Ysera the Dreamer, the Lady of the Green Dragonflight, that they enter the Emerald Dream for periods of one thousand years in order to help Nature rebuild and foster the world after its great pains and wracks caused by the War.

(Author's Note: Hey everybody! Thanks for all the feedback I've been getting. When I say that, I really do mean it. I've been getting all kinds of responses and whatnot from my readers, and its really been pleasing me. I'll go over my mistakes that several people have pointed out from earlier chapters a bit later, as for now I'm going to hit the sack due to a long Christmas day.

Again, thanks to all the loyal reviewers and readers of this story. Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays. See you all soon!

-Omegatrooper)


	39. Chapter 38: Winds of Change

**Chapter** **38: Winds of Change**

The Subterranean Barrow Dens

Tyrande, Furion, the druids of the Claw, as well as some dryads, sporting their ivy covered spears, that had met up with them as they were about to enter the cavern's mouth barreled out of the small, dusty tunnel into a massive chamber. Long abandoned highways stretched out before them, covered in rubble and dirt, the once polished walls now crumbling and falling apart. Nature was already reclaiming this ancient place.

Giant luminescent mushrooms had sprouted from the cracks in the pavement, and spider webs concealed many of the splitting paths along with darkness. A cadre of small rats ran away as Furion lit the fingertips of his hand with blue light.

"These Barrow Dens have remained untouched for over three thousand years. Still, there is no telling what creatures might've taken up residence after we shut these tunnels shut." Furion spoke, his voice echoing off the halls.

"There is nothing to fear in this place. The only enemy that has given me pause is now corrupting the lands above us. Let us get done with this business and return to the surface." Tyrande retorted in an annoyed tone. She was irked by having to skulk around underground, away from the battle.

"Agreed. Just be careful. There is no knowing how the druids of the Claw will react to us after all this time." Furion moved forward, his followers tagging close behind.

Where the druids of the Talon represented virtue, agility, thought, intellect, and cunning, those of the Claw were a different breed, not only in their druidism, but also in their air.

For three thousand years the druids of the Claw, aspects of strength, wisdom, integrity, and stoicism, had slept. They hadn't even been awakened for the great battles against the mystical insectoid Silithid, whom had invaded in centuries long past.

Delving deep into the ground, the group found themselves passing ancient mosaics and relics older even than the barrow dens. They were remnants of the night elf golden age, and some even older than that. These caves had been here for tens of thousands of years, and had housed civilizations beyond remembrance.

Tyrande paused near a dirtied, but still readable scripture of Elune. At the top was a moon etched in pure silver, surrounded by a palette of blue tiles. Furion nudged at her, but the priestess relented for a moment, drawn by the beauty of the art.

"Our ancestors, even though they were fools who sought the power of the Well of Eternity, were polished and wise beyond our ability to reason." Tyrande murmured.

"Indeed they were great. And that greatness was also their fall. Never forget that Tyrande." Furion replied. His consort nodded in approval of the statement.

Before they could make their way fully through the gallery, a gigantic spider, greater than any Furion had ever seen, or dreamed of, before lurched backwards as the light shone upon it. Pulling back for a moment, the spider then sped forward, spitting a corrosive liquid at the crew.

Everyone dodged, the dryads throwing their spears at the beast. It only made the situation worse, as the monster began to spew out even more of the corrupted liquid. Suddenly, a flash of green light fried the beast, sending it tumbling to the ground. From behind the massive spider, three furbolg shamans appeared.

"Ho, night elves. From the top-world you come, yes?" one of the furbolgs asked in a strange thalassian accent.

"Indeed we do. To whom may we owe the pleasure of such a rescue?" Furion responded.

"The Undertusk Clan to these caves welcomes you. Find here little but the dead and corrupted you will." The white furred furbolg spoke up.

"So it was the demonic corruption that did this. Elune! If it can do this to these creatures down here, then I can only nightmare about what it can do to those above." Tyrande cursed.

"Back to your world you should go. These caves are not a place for elves of the night." The furbolg shaman growled.

"I thank you for helping us with this monster, but we must continue onwards. It has been many a year since I came into this cave. Where might we find the druids of the Claw?" Furion asked.

"Those of the Claw slumber deep within, a place to where we never go. If you seek them out, you fall out of the safety of Undertusk. Deeper in, deeper trouble."

"I understand, and once again thank you for your help, but we must make this trek." Furion smiled kindly.

"Tis the choice of your own making, great druid. Take with you my totem. It will bring luck deep into the world you journey to. Beware as well, for many of my own have taken corruption into their hearts and will attack you down there." The shaman continued.

"We shall be careful. Now let's go." Tyrande broke her gaze from the charred spider.

"Careful is to enough for the Under of the Deeps. There are things worse than corrupted furbolg down there. Be safe, elves of night." The furbolg handed over his totem to Furion, who graciously accepted.

And so the night elves descended deeper.

The Arathi Highlands

The cry for Lordaeron, Darrowshire, Stromgarde went out; for Quel'thalas, for Aerie Peak, for the Alliance, and for all the thousands of cities, towns, villages, hamlets, and the millions whom had been claimed by the war. In the battle, the hearts of tens of thousands, stirred by a single battle cry, now exploded forth with all the pent up rage, sorrow, sickness, and disgust towards war.

In the minds of these men and women, the loss, the frustration, and the emptiness took over. The simple bonds between them were brought forth, renewed, and shone forth, the bands of brothers and sisters fighting for each other as well as comrades, family, and friends from both past and the future. The psych and restraint of the soldiers broke as a single figure ran toward the enemy lines holding the flag of the Alliance.

Following, the right flank of the Alliance army surged forward. The enemy line staggered and fought as throngs of humans and elves swarmed them. Bullets flew, cannon shot sizzled, and magic from Belinda Aalar and Casper Valus' mages flew through the air.

The demons, though terrifying and strong almost beyond logic, were overrun. As the lines of the right flank smashed against the Scourge, the force was unlike anything the undead army had yet experienced. Each individual fought like a berserker, being wounded and continuing to fight long after their bodies would have been spent normally.

The Scourge's front lines were literally mowed down. Cavalry from the far right crashed down, lassoing and bringing down the hulking beasts, while rounding up and finishing off the smaller ones as walls of spear drove the frontline back further. Waves of flame lit the low lying nimbus clouds a dull orange as catapults, ballistae, trebuchets, onigers, and lit arrows arced lazily across the sky, peppering the undead.

At the front of the Alliance, Valdar Justax held high the colors of the Alliance, pushing forward with a vanguard surrounding him, penetrating deep into the Scourge's formation.

Alliance Left Flank

Newt Tallheart surveyed the scene with a brass telescope, huffing satisfied at how the soldiers had been fired up into a frenzy. It was like kicking over an ant hill. The legions of men hidden behind the hills had poured forth emanating the most deafening sound he'd ever heard.

After repeated contact and engagement with the undead, the Alliance forces had grown accustomed to staring death literally in the face. This army had forgotten much of their fear of the undead. They'd become conditioned to it.

His mission was to hold the left flank, but it seemed that Valdar's plan was working a little too well. The Scourge were not advancing. If anything, the ridiculous, incredible attack had left itself open to attack from the left.

Tallheart could see the battle already unfold if he stayed put. Valdar's attack would be outflanked, cut off from the weak left by a stab at the Alliance's center, surrounded, and eliminated. There was only one thing he could do: attack. If he did that however, his troops would be crushed by the sheer numbers of the Scourge; their casualties would exceed 50% at least, he derived as he ran the numbers through his head. The chain of command could not survive that, however, it would give Valdar a fighting chance to reach the heart of the Scourge where their plan would be put into action.

"Life's a gamble." He said quietly to himself. "Sound attack: full." He said to his bugler.

General Serath looked over at him, surprised. "What are you doing, Tallheart?"

Tallheart laughed. "Playing good chess, dear General…playing good chess."

The Barrow Deeps

For hours it seemed like, the group had passed through one world into another. As they progressed, the signs of ancient civilization began to dim, and naught but nature and whatever corruption from the surface had made it here.

Tyrande pondered how the Legion's corruption had spread to a place so remote while Furion and the rest of the group mapped out the cave's branching pathways. Most led to dead ends, but others had held more dangers like the spiders and feral furbolgs. Some even came to an abrupt drop.

After what seemed a long time, even for night elves, the group appeared before a huge set of iron wrought gates. Vines and glowing mushrooms had covered their front, yet Furion was struck with a sudden sense of sickening familiarity.

"The paths cut off to the left here, and descend further into the darkness. Yet, this doorway looks promising." Tyrande spoke, placing a hand against the outgrowth of vines.

"Oh no…how could I have forgotten." Furion said.

"What is behind this door that worries you, my love?"

Furion stared at the doorway, and everything became clear. It had been nearly 10,000 years ago when he last came down this way. He remembered the sunlight beating down on him as he escorted the prisoner, filling his mind with the inoculating buzz of a thousand insects to prevent him from using his vile magic. That long walk had been painful for Furion, even though he knew it was the right thing to do.

"This door—" Furion spoke with urgency. "—leads to Illidan's prison. We should go. _Now._"

Memories exploded over Tyrande like a blooming flower. "Illidan?! Its been 10,000 years. Could he still be alive?" The images of war long gone, and of courtship and happy days floated over Tyrande. Illidan…she had nearly forgotten him in all these millennia of guardianship. The pain of his imprisonment and betrayal swelled and surfaced. In the darkness of this cave, he had been held for 10,000 years…was it possible?

"We should free him, Furion. He could make a perfect ally against the undead and their demon masters!" She came to the quick decision.

"No Tyrande! That beast must NEVER be set free!" Furion exploded. "You are being far too hasty."

"But he is your brother, Furion! How could you—" Tyrande was cut off.

"Be that as it may, he is far too…dangerous." The druid searched for the right words. "He betrayed us before out of his lust for magic; the same magic that sundered this world and destroyed our civilization."

"Furion, I understand, but he would not possibly ally with the Legion again. He understands the depths of his crimes and repented in days past. He has repented for 10,000 years!" Tyrande cried out. "He will remember you. He will remember _me."_

Furion shifted uncomfortably. Long ago, both the brothers had loved Tyrande and competed for her. Furion could not help but imagine that it had been Tyrande's choosing that had helped slicked his downfall.

"I'm afraid of that." He said, eyeing the door as if it were Illidan himself. "I forbid you to pass that door, Tyrande."

Tyrande felt a sudden wave of rage. "Only the Goddess may forbid me anything. I will free Illidan whether you like it or not." The air around Tyrande suddenly began to glow silver, like the light of the moon itself. The priestess' aura grew, and extended into the door. Slowly, the two interlocking circles that shut the way began to roll to opposite ends, tearing the vines and mushrooms away from one another. The priestess and her huntresses bolted through the door, which then quickly shut behind them, sending gusts of dust into the air.

"Shan'do Stormrage, will we pursue them?" a druid of the talon implored.

Furion sighed. "My powers cannot open that door. Though it grieves me to leave her, we must press on. The druids of the Claw must be awakened."

Furion sighed as he turned away from the doorway where Tyrande and her Sentinels had disappeared through, a feeling of dread and depression eating at his core. Her plan was mad, perhaps even bordering on insane; the results of releasing Illadin from his prison would be akin to allowing a beautiful patch of trees to be engulfed by a raging inferno. Yet, for all the ludicrously of such a plan, Furion had to admit than powerful allies, even ones as unstable as his brother, were necessary in this time of darkness. Though Illidin hated the Night Elves, he had sworn to hunt Demons until his dying day and would at least slaughter members of the Legion before killing his own kin…or so Furion hoped.

The Scourge Rear

Haures sat upon his throne, not bothering to think of the gigantic battle that raged ahead. He left that up to the lich, Kel'thuzad. The massive, writhing chair, carved from the very souls of those whom he'd slain, was carried by a literal battalion of skeletons towards the battle.

Surrounding him were his most loyal dreadlords, led by Balnazzar, and pit lords, led by Magtheridon. He was not a fool enough to believe that any of the eredar would follow him. In the triumvirate that had ruled the Burning Legion since Sargeras' demise, he had always been the lesser of the three Lords. Kil'jaeden and Archimonde had always underestimated him, only feigning interest in his ideas, using him to balance their own power.

Kil'jaeden was manipulative, cunning, and immensely intellectual. He garnered loyalty amongst his subjects by letting themselves prove themselves again and again, even if they consistently failed him. Haures knew he had much to fear from Kil'jaeden, whose plans circled and ensnared everything. The eredar lord sometimes planned things centuries in advance, waiting for their time to come. Yet this time, he, Haures, would outsmart the trickster.

Archimonde was a cold, analyzing tactician, though his thirst for the blood of Azeroth had made him rather aggressive and thus careless when the rifts had finally opened, allowing the Legion into the world. He had always assumed that it would be he who would eventually succeed the fallen Titan. Kil'jaeden, the third Lord of the Legion, had informed Haures that Archimonde's objective was the World Tree. Haures stood by quietly as Archimonde departed the shores of this already cursed land for Kalimdor, for he had another plan; one which would grant him as much power.

The Ivory Spire of Karazhan would provide him with the powers he needed to defeat and break with the Triumvirate! Long had the Guardian Medievh, last scion of the ancient Guardian Order which had defied the Legion for so long, resided. The tower was built in a region whose reality was blended and damaged. Karazhan, he hypothesized, was one of the poles of all magic in Azeroth; the other being the World Tree. In theory, when the Sundering of Azeroth occurred, the Waters of Eternity were vaporized and scattered far and wide.

Not long ago, only a century or so, a mysterious and massive explosion carved out a great canyon in the Deadwind Pass region. According to the Book of Medievh, which Haures had procured from Kel'thuzad, a lich serving under him, the explosion was magical in nature, and had seemed to create a vacuum which magic had filled.

Though the World Tree's energy was stronger than Karazhan's at the moment, its reason was simple: the World Tree was a singularity. Karazhan's power was spread out far and wide across the entire eastern landmass. To gather and utilize Karazhan's power, Haures would have to initiate a series of spells, seals, and incantations. Only then could he fully rival Archimonde, and by then, Kil'jaeden would be out of the way.

Though he would have relished the thought of leaving immediately and claiming Karazhan's strength as his own, he knew that obstacles would appear immediately if he attempted to do so, foremost being the elf Dragias and his Excubitores organization, and so in an attempt to draw them out, he would show himself once again here, amidst the Scourge. They were bound any minute, and when they showed, he would finish their petty resistance once and for all. The only thing that worried him was that sword Dragias carried…it was incredibly powerful. He sensed the Titan's work in the sword, and knew from that alone, it, and Dragias, would be a foe to be taken with caution.

Then, he would burn this world to a cinder. After slaying Archimonde and Kil'jaeden, he would ornament his shoulders with their heads, and continue on Sargeras's path of cleansing the universe. No…that is what he had thought at first. But with the Legion at his back, what reason was there in merely destroying the Titan's creation?

No, the Titans were still out there. If one was to put order to a chaotic universe, to revert it back to a time of true, undeniable stasis, they would have to conquer the Titans themselves. Sargeras had never attempted it, and Kil'jaeden and Archimonde never even dreamed of it. He would defeat the Titans, and by doing so, bring true closure to the endless paradox that was the universe, replacing it with the only thing that made sense: a universe of his own.

As if on cue, a multitude of flashing lights erupted around his throne. The sudden extra weight proved to be too much for the skeleton battalion carrying the platform, cracking their bones and causing the entire plane to fall thudding to the ground.

As the dust rose, Haures beheld twenty one white robed figures, all unsheathing magical weapons. Sitting calmly upon his throne of throbbing, screaming, solidified souls, Haures put a fist to his cloth swathed cheek and sighed. One of the figures stepped forward unfastening the cloak to reveal a golden plated warrior: Dragias. He quickly placed five strange metal rods in the ground in a pentagon.

"**It is about time**." Haures announced.

"Lets start." The elf replied, unsheathing the despicable Titan-made weapon.

The Barrow Deeps

Furion beckoned for his subordinates, the Druids of the Talon, to follow him as he pressed onward into the Barrow Dens. As they passed a threshold which bore the sigil of the druids of the Claw, the layout of the caverns began to become more familiar. Inside, the tunnels were designed much like the barrow dens of the Talons.

It had been thousands of years since anyone had entered these sacred halls, yet to the Druids it looked the same as it did long before their slumber within the Emerald Dream. The exquisitely carved wooden interior still retained its shape and structure showing no signs of warping or decay. The walls were lined with etchings of events of the ancient days: scenes of Ysera the Dreamer, Queen of the Green Dragons and creator of the Emerald Dream, sowing the seeds to create Nordrassil, the World Tree atop Mount Hyjal. These scenes of purity and growth within the Barrow Den offered a stark contrast to the outside world; while Furion and his allies desperately rushed through the corridors of the den in hopes of rousing the Druids of the Claw, the Demons prowled Ashenvale, laying low their kin and corrupting their comrades of old.

The dens seemed eerily quiet for the first hour the druids probed the ancient halls. There were no signs of the Druids of the Claw they sought, something which initially confused the explorers. Eventually, Furion and his comrades stumbled upon a large open hall with a wooden ceiling which stretched sixty feet overhead. On the floor of this chamber dozens of druids slumbered: some were in their Elven form while others had assumed the guise of bears and snored loudly. Furion approached them and began inspecting their bodies before turning to address the Druids of the Talon.

"They are in a far deeper slumber than you all were when I came to wake you. I should be able to wake them by blowing the Horn of Cenarius, but I will need to reach an area where all of them can hear me and awake; we do not have time to waste rousing them in smaller groups like this, and surely more druids are to be found deeper into the dens."

"Where do you suggest is the best location to blow the horn, then?" One of the senior Druids of the Talon named Ky'vos, asked Furion.

"There!" Furion pointed skywards, indicating a raised platform that jutted out from an alcove close to the ceiling. All around this platform were massive holes in the walls. "If I can blow the horn from that location, the sound should be carried by the acoustics of the building and reverberate across all the chambers, rousing the vast majority of the druids of the Claw. Come, we have no time to waste!" Furion pressed ahead, stepping gingerly over the bodies of sleeping elves while the Druids of the Talon took their crow form to fly over the bodies. The group entered a passageway at the far end of the room, discovering a coiling length of thick wood which crept up the sides of the den and extended towards the platform Furion hoped to reach. The avian druids returned to their elven forms as they followed Furion towards the ramp.

Suddenly, Furion heard a terrible roaring sound and looked to see a mass of furry bodies rushing down the ramp.

"Let me pass. The arch-druid of the Moonglade demands passage." Furion called out. The masses of bodies did not stop.

"Damn! It's a cadre of corrupted furbolgs!" Ky'vosh cursed.

"Elune have mercy on us…" Furion muttered, "We have no choice but to kill them, the Legion has corrupted them far too greatly!"

Furion closed his eyes and concentrated as the mass of furbolgs rushed towards his druids. In his mind he pictured the frenzied beasts rushing towards their lines: their brown fur matted with blood, saliva flying wildly from between their gnashing fangs, their claws swiping at the air in anticipation of the combat ahead.

As the bear-like humanoids came within striking distance of the Night Elves, spikes of wood erupted from the walls and ground of the Barrow Den and impaled some of the creatures, while others were restrained by constricting vines that emerged from the ground. The Druids of the Talon began to fire blasts of natural energy at the creatures, tearing apart the corrupted creatures. Yet, for all the damage the furbolgs sustained in those early moments, the animalistic fury that possessed them caused the furry warriors to continue rushing forward. They outnumbered the Night Elves six to one, and so the seemingly heavy losses they sustained were mitigated by the massive size of their force.

A moment later, chaos erupted in the lines as the furbolgs crashed into the druids and began to tear them apart with their sharp claws. Though some druids managed to fend off attacks with their staves, many more were dragged down and became a feast for these once noble beasts. Tears welled in Furion's eyes as he sent a blast of nature magic at a black-furred furbolg that rushed towards him. The creature's eyes rolled into the back of its skull as it dropped to the ground from the mighty magical assault.

Anarchy ruled in the Barrow Den as the combatants became nigh impossible to differentiate in the swirling melee. The bodies of the foes seemed to meld together into a stream of magical blasts and sweeping claws. Some Druids of the Talon took to their Stormcrow forms and began to peck out the eyes of their attackers before returning to Elven form and crushing their skulls with a staff or sending a pulse of magical energy through their enemies' furry chests.

From the connecting tunnels of the caves, two utterly huge owlbears emerged, chanting something almost inaudible. As they approached, Furion began to decipher what they said. "Turn back! You are unworthy to bask in the bear-gods presence!"

"Bear-gods? Do they mean the druids of the Claw? Why would they call them bear-gods when they appear as we do?" a druid thought outloud.

Soon, it seemed like the Night Elves had the edge as the majority of the corrupted furbolgs lay dead or dying on the Barrow Den floor. The druids pushed harder, yet the furbolgs continued to fight, even while dying in droves, the Legion's corruption having done away with their fear and better judgment.

Suddenly, the largest of the furbolgs who the Elves assumed was the chieftain, let out a guttural roar which was taken up by his compatriots. Instantly, the ground began to echo with reverberations, a noise that resembled a wild tapping. Furion and his druids turned to the source of the sound and saw the druids of the Claw begin to arise.

"It seems we have awoken our brothers with the sounds of our vulgar fighting. Excuse me, brothers, but we have—wait—" Furion's face contorted as he noticed something wrong with the Claw druids. Those whom were in their night elf forms began to shift back to those of the bears and charge towards the night elf group. The massive bear-druids smashed into the line of night elves, clawing and ripping with their incredible, mindless power.

"They've drowned in their bear-aspects!" someone called out. "They have gone feral with the power!"

"Damn it all, we will never make it through this," Furion cursed. "If only I had awoken the Druids of the Claw before this had happened. It was unwise to let them sleep here for so long."

Ky'vosh turned to Furion, raised his staff, and called to his leader. "Shan'do Stormrage, if that is all we need to turn the tide I will do my best to stall these furbolgs and the Claws! Ascend that platform and awaken the druids of the Claw from their madness! Follow me, my brothers!" With that, Ky'vosh transformed, his body becoming that of a proud raven; other Druids of the Talon followed suit, flapping behind Ky'vosh as he flew over the heads of the encroaching furbolgs, pecking at their skulls. The annoyed beasts roared angrily and chased after the birds, throwing crude javelins which claimed the lives of several unlucky druids. They attempted to the best of their ability to avoid the actual druids of the Claw.

"Thank you, Ky'vosh my old friend; this may be what I need to turn the tide of both this fight, and the war in general. Your aid will be swift." Furion turned, his leafy cloak flying behind him as he rushed up the ramp and pulled the Horn of Cenarius from his robes.

Blowing, the magical notes of the Horn washed over the barrow dens like calm waters upon a beach. As the last furbolgs and owlbears collapsed at the attacks of the Talons, the transformed druids of the Claw began to collapse on the ground, writhing as the memories of the past returned to them.

After long minutes, Furion descended to meet his long lost disciples. One Claw whom Furion recognized as Tano, the mightiest of the Claws, approached him, still staggering from the ordeal and stunned from the utter carnage that had been wreaked upon the barrow den. The bodies of dozens of furbolgs lay scattered about, their blood and entrails carpeting the wood-stone floor in mats of purple blood.

"Shan'do Stormrage, I don't know what came over us. Its been so long since we remembered who we were." Tano spoke, shameful.

"All is well, Thero'shan. I have need of you and your mighty brethren once again. After all these ages, the Burning Legion has returned, and only our combined strength can drive them back." Furion explained.

Tano gasped at the mention of the Legion's return. "So it has finally come to pass. Our sins have caught up with us. Then we druids of the Claw are yours to command. Let us defeat the Legion once and for all, Shan'do Stormrage."

"Indeed we will. War is a tire upon us all, though we should thank the battles of old that they were so terrible that we not love war as we once did." Furion spoke wisely. "Now let us return to the surface."

_Tyrande…be alright. _

Alliance Frontline

"Keep going!" Valdar shouted out, panting as he jumped over another corpse. The flag in his hands was getting heavy, but he was afflicted with the battle fever. Around him knots of soldiers had gathered, protecting their flag as it moved forward faster than anyone had believed possible. The surprise tactic was working.

"Here!" Valdar stopped in his tracks, pulling out a leathery piece of parchment from beneath his mail vest. Unraveling it, he laid it on the ground and uncorked a vial of soul dust, pouring it on the blank document. Suddenly, blue script appeared, shining and forceful. Around him, puffs of air burst as figures filled the spaces where only a second ago there had only been atmosphere. In the midst of the battle, the summoning scroll had pulled Casper Valus, Belinda Aalar and her companions, as well as a small contingent of the best troops the Alliance could muster out of its forces.

"It worked!" Valdar exclaimed, half giddy, half in amazement that the summoning scroll actually did its job for such a large amount of people.

"Create a perimeter!" Belinda Aalar shouted out immediately, as the additional reinforcements fanned out to aid the salient that surrounded the flag Valdar had held.

In seconds, the Scourge army's belly had been ruptured, almost cutting their force in two. They could only hope that the forces that hadn't partaken in the charge were able to hold out and cover their flank, as well as hope that the cavalry assault on the right wing of he enemy was preventing them from repositioning themselves.

"Valdar, are you alright?" Casper walked up to the kneeling warrior.

"Yeah…just catching my breath." Valdar responded, panting heavily. He and his men had just run over a mile and a half while fighting. One leg at a time, he slowly rose, viewing the fruit of his labor.

"Your plan worked perfectly." Casper said, looking around. With the Scourge front broken, the insides, where most of the necromancers relaying commands to the undead, were. If they were able to also locate Haures, whom was the supposed leader of the Scourge here, they could throw the enemy into complete disarray.

"Don't speak just yet. We're only halfway there." Valdar replied, standing up.

Massive thunderclaps echoed over the battlefield, even though blue streaks shot through patchy clouds. Lightning and huge towers of flame and water erupted in the distance. Gusts of wind and dirt flew from the rear of the Scourge lines in what seemed to be a huge series of explosions.

"What the hell do you think that is?" Valdar asked.

"I don't know, but…it's a vulgar feeling." The two stared for a moment at the rising plumes in the distance. Suddenly, the entire sky lit up.

The Scourge Rear

Dragias, the leader of the Excubitores stood face to face with Haures, Lord of the Legion. As the members of his ancient organization fought a multitude of incredibly powerful dreadlords and pit lords, he a smile poked at the side of his face. The hundreds, no thousands of years of preparation had led him to this battle. The Roads of Fate all converged here. Everything from birth, his family's death and the betrayal of Quel'thalas, to the discovery of the Old One, and even his rebirth; it all had led him to this point. Dragias was suddenly set ablaze with an aura of fire, bringing his Titan-forged weapon to bear.

Haures kept his distance, knowing the power of the sword held by the elf in front of him. As before, if he was hit by that blade, he would be immobilized.

They're battle was one beyond the caliber of those in the world. Haures was impressed by the strength of the mortal, though if indeed he was one of the Augurs as well, then it would explain his almost impossible abilities. Beyond residing in the shell of a feeble elven body, Dragias was as powerful as some of his greatest champions.

"One of our Roads ends here today." Haures announced, clenching his bandaged fists.

"No, demon, again you are wrong. Both of them end today." Dragias replied.

The wreckage of their battle lay about. Large craters pocked the earth, fires of all hues burned around him. Pit lords, dreadlords, infernals, and a dozen other demon castes fought the Excubitores in a swirl of unrighteous battling.

"_Delena achus keaiuh" _the elf chanted quickly, running to the side. The ground began to shake, ripping open to isolate the two of them from the rest of the battle. From the hilltops on either side, the soil began to loosen as the moisture was dragged out of them, forming a ball of water in the air that grew larger as the droplets of groundwater gathered. The dirt in the hills began to slough and fall, no longer held by living grass roots and wetness, resulting in a multitude of miniature avalanches.

Haures stood still as the soil wave fell upon his forces. Dragias broke a Seal that amplified his magical abilities and erected a barrier around him with the water he'd collected, protecting him from whatever unknown fire spells the Legion Lord might bring into play. With what remained, he quickly used another spell that caused the water to freeze over into thick shards of ice that solidified in the form of stalactites, which rained down upon Haures.

Haures held a hand up in the air and using a gust of hot air, melted away the ice. Suddenly, as he wasn't paying attention, the ground ruptured beneath him, falling away into the abyss that Dragias had created seconds earlier. Looking down, he noticed the elf teleporting right in front of him and jabbing with the sword.

Haures disappeared for a moment, blurring out of sight and reappearing but a few paces to the right. His arm seemed to melt as the bandaging on it was torn apart by the flesh beneath. The black liquid of his left reformed into a vicious looking set of blades protruding from the elbow, which looked much like an axe. Further down his arm, two more sets of knife-like spikes escaped the grasp of flesh, ending in a spear where his hand had been before. Throwing his right arm up, a blinding pillar of blue flame shot up kilometers into the sky, lighting the whole battlefield.

The clouds moved quickly out of the way of the fire, clearing the whole sky as it turned orange with the heat from Haures' blast. Dragias looked on, heat waves almost entirely enveloping the figure of Haures. It would be too dangerous to go any closer. Already he could feel blisters forming on his neck and exposed hands.

Looking up, Dragias noticed that the gigantic flame had begun to rain back down to earth. Haures was lighting rocks from beneath the earth on fire and propelling them upwards with his fire…

_Creating artificial comets…how fitting for a monster not of Creation. _

In the midst of the untouchable fire, Haures had begun to grow, his powers unfolding. Bowing his legs, Dragias lifted his arms towards the heaven and motioned them in a swirl. As Haures used this time to call out his strength he would have to strike him down.

From the farthest reaches of the horizon, black clouds began to appear, bubbling quickly as the updrafts from Haures' inferno fueled their insatiable hunger.

All around now, both infernals and Haures' comets rained, crushing hundreds at a time. Wildfires began to spring up across the trampled Stromgardian grass, burning quickly across the land as wind from Dragias's coming clouds kicked it up further.

Chanting ancient, terrible words, Dragias continued to conjure his spell. If Haures was able to fully unravel his powers, not even the _Kaldaei _would be able to kill him. Flames licked close to Dragias, singing the skin on his legs, but the Excubitor would not falter.

Then, _thunder! _The clouds closed in around the flame, growing unnaturally fast and big, flashing as lightning charged within.

"To fight flame with flame, Haures!" Dragias shouted out. It was now. This was his time. Summoning to him all the ambient magic of Eastern world through _Kaldaei, _he held the blade up to the sky. Haures continued to channel more of the Nether's energy to himself, unaware of the trap he'd dug for himself. Around the ridges of the eye of the storm which surrounded the superheated air of the Demon Lord and his magical firestorm, which was now turning the ground around him to blackened glass.

Slowly swirling, the lightning continued to charge, growing more powerful and more powerful. Its intensity was so great that it continued to exist, forming stable plasma within the atmosphere. By the time that Haures noticed something occurring outside his untouchable sphere, it was too late. Lowering the blade, Dragias pointed towards Haures.

"Feel my tempest, beast of the Legion!" Dragias yelled at the top of his lungs while retreating to his pentagon of metal rods.

With only a flash, the entire storm discharged in a cone of lightning around the penumbra of storm's eye. An explosion rocked the center of the Scourge's army, obliterating thousands of its warriors, taking hundreds of Alliance soldiers with it too. Instantly, Haures's flame dissipated, consumed by the massive strike of elemental lightning. Without the conflagration's heat to keep it going, the clouds almost immediately began to break up, allowing rays of sunlight to peek through, revealing the utter destruction wreaked on the land below by the two powerhouses battle.

As the smoke cleared, a huge c rater, hundreds of feet across, and at least fifty feet deep was left. In its center, Haures, Lord of the Legion, prostrate and shocked. Taken aback by the strength of the blow, Haures struggled to stand, his ferrous liquid body falling apart time and time again, just barely able to retain his form.

Shielded by his five metal prongs, Dragias stood and slid down the side of the crater. At the base, he slowly walked towards Haures, _Kaldaei _at his side. The demon noticed and struggled to reform even faster. Before he could, Dragias stepped forward boldly and impaled the Legion Lord in the chest, immobilizing him.

"Your game is over, _demon_!" Dragias spat, pulling the vile monster closer to him.

"**Your mortal constraints cannot kill me. At best, you can banish me to the Nether. I will say I am impressed though—you are as great as the Roads told. In any case, I will return, time and time again until you are dead, this world is ash, and the Creators are at my feet!**" Haures scoffed.

Dragias closed his eyes, unwilling to listen. It was time. Including Haures now, all the pieces were in place. He would create a backlash using the Demon Lord as a fulcrum with which to open a hole in reality and purge the Nether.

The days of his childhood flashed back to him, the world so bright and full of opportunity. He eyed it like a piece of honeyed leafsong. Growing, he came to know of the dangers of the Legion, and how they posed a threat to everything he knew and held dear. Growing yet, he had entered the ranks of the magicians and swore his soul to defend Quel'thalas and all the world from the unearthly monsters of the Nether.

Then, his friend Vilinus' betrayal after he'd found out about the Old One. Vilinus had killed everyone Dragias had held close, effectively ending the life of 'Dragias' all but heartbeats and breaths. During his years of hermitage, he'd had his revelation, about all Creation, and how the world was but a small part of a vast family of peoples and natures. It was simple: the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few, and so he'd created the Excubitores once more.

After his second death, the Old One had revealed to him the secrets of the universe, and propelled his learning and understanding even faster than ever. It had all led to this point.

"By the strength of Azeroth, by the evil of your own power, by the fraternity of this universe and all Creation, and by the power of the Old Gods, you WILL die today." Dragias pulled the blade out of Haures's body and once again thrust it skyward. He hugged the wounded Legion Lord close, chanting words that would end worlds.

As reality and unbelievable amounts of magic and energy coalesced around the two, Haures looked on with, for the first time in his life, fear. Sapphire, amethyst, ruby, gold, silver, scarlet, ebon, emerald, opal, and all kinds of colors began to gather. The bystanders from both Alliance and Scourge could only guess what was going on as they continued their fight.

"So say we all, in the name of the Titans, be this sacrifice the pinnacle of—" just as Dragias was about to finish his sentence, a flash of light erupted behind him. A figure, bloodied and draped in white rushed forward, unsheathing a dagger.

"DRAGIAS!" Cyrus Faim'las screamed, sinking his blade deep into his former mentor's back.

Alliance Pocket

Valdar choked on the dirt that filled his mouth. Spitting out it out, he pushed up on all fours, the bodies on top of his rolling off. As he stood, dust fell from his armor. He then noticed a sight he thought he'd never see. For perhaps a mile around, the entire Alliance offensive had collapsed literally into the ground, blown back by the sudden onslaught of wind.

The same was true for the undead, who were toppled over like trees in a storm. Slowly, survivors began to get up, staring dazedly at the destruction around them. Here and there some undead still twitched, but the soldiers put quick swords through their heads. Whomever was controlling them directly must've been taken out in the explosion as well.

"What the hell happened here…" Valdar said, stunned. "Casper!" he then realized that the mage had just been right next to him before the explosion. Looking around, he couldn't find him. He might be buried under the myriad bodies that littered the ground.

Valdar began walking around, hollow-eyed. Thousands surrounded him from both sides. Apart from the few whom were standing up, it seemed like the world had become a desolate wasteland. Farther back, near the hills, the fighting seemed to continue, but here, where the main offensives were, there was no action at all.

Tripping on a throng of bodies, Valdar fell forward, tripping again and again, barely able to keep his balance amidst the sea of lifeless corpses. Finally catching himself, he realized that he stood on the precipice of a gigantic crater. Near the bottom, three figures, shadowed by rising dust and smoke, moved. As the haze cleared, Valdar immediately recognized Haures of the Legion, the one responsible for Ellena's death.

Wide-eyed and filled with sudden vengeance, he jumped into the crater, skidding down its long edges.

The Scourge Rear

Dragias stared at Haures, feeling the cold metal penetrate his body. Slowly looking back, he saw his wayward protégé, Cyrus, staring at him with unsympathetic eyes.

"You—" Dragias lost his balance, falling backwards onto a knee.

"I said I won't let you do this. Azeroth and life have greater meaning than what you hold." Cyrus replied, holding his own wound to keep the bleeding from continuing.

"How did you get here? You were too wounded, and we—drained the ambient magic…"

"I used the methods you taught me. I was able to tap into the Old One's latent energy, but not before using it to destroy your cavern. That monstrosity is buried beneath the earth, hopefully forever." Cyrus looked down.

"What? No…I—what will happen to everything without me? How can Creation possibly survive? What have you done, Cyrus?" Dragias sputtered, blooding flowing freely from his lung and stomach to mouth. "Only I can…stop this madness."

"No, you are wrong Dragias. All you have done is contribute to the madness. Its who have foregone their ideals for a greater cause that have truly failed themselves. I'm sorry, but I _won't _let you do this."

Dragias crawled back toward Haures, gripping _Kaldaei_. On his knees, he attempted to continue his incantation, but Cyrus simply walked up to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and pulled him back.

"Cyrus…I leave it up to you. You know the words. Just remember what I taught you. Finish it. Destroy Haures, and—" Dragias keeled over, gurgling up more blood. "…destroy the Legion. It's up to you."

"No, I won't do it. I told you before, I will find another way. I refuse to be corrupted by your thinking." Cyrus stood tall over the dying elf.

On his knees, Dragias looked up towards the sky. The clouds were now passing, and the sun shining forth. Raising his hands heaven-ward, Dragias began to smile. "It's all just a game…" he said sadly. He began to fall backwards, the passage of time slowing.

_To fall is a quiet thing. No one notices when they are beyond until it is too late. _Cyrus' thoughts echoed, watching the golden armored elf tip backwards. As the crashing sound of his body hitting the floor resonated, Cyrus walked towards Dragias and knelt down.

"I will kill Haures…that much I can promise you and your Excubitores." He shut Dragias' eyelids. "Be now with the Light, if there is such a thing, and be reunited with your family."

Turning, his cloak flowed backwards in a slight wind. He turned towards the Legion Lord, walking slowly towards him. He cast down his staff, and prepared to pick up Dragias' sword.

Haures began to chuckle, and then burst into maniacal laughter, the immobilizing, deadly, sword cutting into his body even deeper as he did. "**Indeed, I read the Roads correctly after all! One of us did fall today.**"

"You're going to die very shortly, beast." Cyrus announced, about to pick up the sword.

"**Just try it!**" Haures goaded.

With both hands, Cyrus clenched the sword in his hands, and was instantly thrown into the air, spinning a hundred times before hitting the ground again. As the drooling elf managed to recover himself after a few seconds rolling on the ground, he noticed that his hands were charred, the top layer of skin nearly black. Looking up, he saw, to his horror, that Haures was free, the sword having pulsed backwards when he'd touched it.

"**Only those whose Roads converge with the Celestial Circles can bear a sword forged of the Titans, fool. You best hope was that Dragias, and now you've slain him.**" The demon pulled itself together, gathering its bubbling mahogany solidus flesh to its body, his arm turning into a horrific looking series of weapons. As Haures completed his reforming, Cyrus suddenly lost his breath. Under the intense stare of the demon, Cyrus fell back to his knees. It was almost as if he was being squashed alive by one of the great northern mammoths, simply by looking into Haures' eyes.

"**Now tremble, mortal. I am Haures Keherakl-shad, Kabbal of the Notoria Druges, Third-In-Tier of the Legion. I am the darkness that haunts your heart. I am the harbinger of destruction to the concept of Creation. I am the death of your world.**" Stepping in closer, Haures held out his weaponized arm. "**Now…die.**"

Cyrus looked wide-eyed, unable to move. _I couldn't use the sword—it rejected me. What can there be done now…? _

Suddenly, a flash of prismed light flashed before Cyrus. The next thing he knew, Haures was staggering backwards, his arm flying off to the side, the same dark liquid that made up his body spewing out of it. With Haures's crushing gaze pulled off of him, Cyrus scrambled backwards, looking towards the one whom had wounded Haures.

Standing a few feet from him was a human, young and familiar. He was dressed in dirty mail, breastplate bearing deep scratches across its surface. On his forefinger he wore a silver ring with word _love _etched into it. A deep, pink scar ran across his cheek up to his eyebrow, narrowly missing his eye. In his hands, he held _Kaldaei, _the crystal sword forged by the Titans in the Waters of Eternity themselves. The sword however seemed to have grown a little, elongated in shape to fit its user.

"How—" Cyrus stuttered.

"So this can hurt you, huh?" The man looked at the sword and smiled. He swung the sword again at the wounded demon, who dodged, landed on his hands and caused the ground to split and exhume green flame.

"**You!" **Haures exclaimed in realization. "**So the threads of Fate did converge around you for a reason! I should have finished you off at the Wall, but these Excubitores interfered.**" He then spouted a drivel of demonic.

That was it! Cyrus recognized the man. He'd seen him for a moment at Thoradin's Wall when he and the other Excubitores had arrived to fight Haures for the first time. Haures began convulsing, the damage to his body from both Dragias and this man great.

The man stepped forward in a brilliant series of swordsmanship maneuvers, faking and sidestepping, twirling and jabbing, eventually landing another blow on the weakened Haures, who grabbed his gut where Dragias had stabbed him. He was extremely weak due to Dragias' blow, and that much was clear.

"Have a stomach ache, demon? How bout I make the pain go away but letting you think of something else?" The human ran forward, planting the sword in the ground and using it as a fulcrum to jump over one of the flaming cracks in the ground. Haures stumbled backwards, heaving. Black blood poured from beneath the bandages on his head.

"I think I'll avenge Ellena today." The human spoke, smiling.

"**And I don't think you'll get to die today, mosquito. I will retire for now, but I will await you. Seek me out in Dalaran.**" The wounded Haures backed away, too wounded now to fight back, and disappeared into the smoke of the grassfires surrounding them.

"Bastard!" The human spat, about to chase Haures into the smoke.

"You won't find him. He's long gone by now." Cyrus spoke, simply sitting where he'd fallen.

The human reemerged from the smoke, still holding the weapon of Dragias. It was almost like a miracle or a dream. At least there was someone who could strike down the demon for good.

The human held out a hand. "I am Valdar Justax. I believe we've met before." His accent held a thick mid-eastern twang to it. Cyrus was always fascinated by the different dialects of Common, and each regions respective accents. Quel'thalas had always spoken but one language, and it was the same everywhere.

"Briefly." Cyrus replied, standing. "I am impressed you can wield that blade. When I tried, this happened." He showed Valdar the grisly burns on his hands.

"Just what is this thing? On the Wall, no weapon could touch that monster." Valdar asked, gazing at the blade.

"I'm not sure myself: a mysterious relic of the ancient past." Cyrus lied. "But for you to wield it, means that you and its previous wielder, Dragias, had something in common."

"You mean the dead elf back there? He was the one that saved our armies at the Wall. We owe him." Valdar looked towards the corpse of Dragias.

"Indeed, he was a wise soul." Cyrus replied, reflecting on Dragias' teachings. _Wise and gnarled. _

"He can be buried with the rest. In any case, there is a battle still going on. I need to return to my forces and see what we can salvage. That son of a bitch said he was in Dalaran, right? If we can scrounge up some men, then Light-be-damned we'll make it to Dalaran if it's the last thing I do. I'll kill that bastard myself, now that I can finally do it."

"Calm yourself, Justax. Its most likely a trap, or at the very least he is trying to draw your force into a final, decisive conflict." Cyrus explained.

"Then a conflict he's going to get. Too many people have died to let this fight go to waste. Would you join us?"

"Seeing that you, among all the millions in this would, can wield that blade, then I know it is my destiny to be at your side."

"Very good." The two started the climb up the side of the crater, back to the battle above.

The Subterranean Prison

Tyrande Whisperwind, Priestess of Elune, and her Sentinels progressed down a wide hallway. The place was unlike the rest of the caverns. It was well kept, and lit with torches on either wall. The place however did have the stink of decay and sickness.

_I can not go back now. Goddess grant that Furion was wrong. _Tyrande thought.

Moving further into the depths, an owlbear, flanked by two night elves wreathed in black cloaks stepped forward, runes pulsating to either side of the hallway behind them. From the flickering shadows, a troop of treants appeared as well.

"Hold Priestess. This place is forbidden, even to you. There is a terrible evil here that must remain chained beneath the earth." The keeper owlbear said, blocking the path of the Sentinels.

_A powerful druid must be controlling these treants. What lies ahead I can only guess. _

"I come bearing Elune's word. The Legion has returned, and we need all the help we can muster to defeat them." Tyrande spoke.

"You will find no help here, Priestess, only the damned." A distantly familiar voice echoed.

"Maeiev!" a Sentinel cried out.

"Greetings, Sisters. What brings you to the Gallows?" a night elf, cloaked in pine green moved from the back of the treant crowd, a helm covering most of her face save her lower jaw.

Maiev had once been one of the Priestesses of Elune, alongside Tyrande. The two had fought against the Legion in the War, and even though she was Tyrande's elder, the younger had been promoted to High Priestess instead. It had become the brunt of a deep jealously that had ruined the duo's relationship.

"Maiev Shadowsong, my sister. It has been too long." Tyrande spoke with warmth. "It is good to see you doing well with your duties."

"As well as one can in the Gallows for 10,000 years." Maiev spoke, her words stinging. "However, not all jobs can be as glamorous as being a Priestess or simple as an archer. One must also uphold justice, to the furthest extents possible. My new sisters here and I, we are the ones whom guard those who would affront the night elves, Elune, and all Nature. Now, why are you here? It couldn't possibly be for the one whom resides at the core of this prison."

After the War had finished, Maiev and a select group of Sisters had descended along with Illidan, and set up guard for him. They had sworn to hold his madness until the end of the world. They had sworn on blood.

"Illidan was considered a great hero once. I believe he will become one again." Tyrande said cautiously.

"Illidan…the mention of that very name spits on the merit of the night elves! How dare you mention it here?"

"Madness! You would doom us all by freeing the Betrayer!" the owlbear keeper exploded with anger. "Such a quest is foolhardy. Even your goddess has condemned the one you seek to free."

"Tyrande, I believe you should turn back now." Maiev said coldly. Her gaze, even behind the helm, was like steel.

"I think Illidan has paid enough for his crimes. I am still the Priestess and Lady of the Sentinels. I am going to free Illidan, at least until the Legion is defeated." The Priestess announced.

In an instant, Maiev had appeared behind Tyrande, a knife held against the Priestesses' throat. The Sentinels all turned towards her, intent on defending their leader.

"Tyrande, my Wardens will defend this prison until the end of time. Do not think to cross us. It has been millennia, but we remember our oath, and unlike you, we _do not break it._" Maiev whispered in Tyrande's ear.

"I will do what I must to save our people, Maiev. Perhaps being down here so long has dulled your mind. The world changes. People change." The Sentinel leader rebuked.

"Not him."

The owlbear keeper roared suddenly and charged forward, cutting a huntresses' panther's head off with a single swipe of its long, sharp claws. The treants rushed forward, following suit.

Tyrande pushed back Maiev, who looked at her in surprise that she would actually attack her. The Priestess strung her bow and fired at the owlbear, piercing its skull. The beast fell to the ground, twitching.

"You fool! What have you done?!" Maiev screamed.

"Your Keepers started this. Now, get out of my way before you find yourself the same as him."

"I won't let you do this, Whisperwind." Maiev hissed.

"So be it." The Priestess motioned to several of her warriors, who surrounded Maiev. Twirling, a fan of blades emerged from beneath the pine cloak of the Warden. As Maiev was caught up in her own melee, Tyrande and three of her Sentinels cut their way through the treants. They rushed down the hallway, passing numerous cells.

Most were ill lit and impossible to see into, though some contained gaunt, pale night elves, as well as other creatures whom had over the centuries done evil in Ashenvale and Kalimdor. Other cells held nothing but dust and bones, their occupants long since passed. Tyrande passed an insect-like creature whom she believed to be Ra-hat Amul, one of her enemies in the great Silithid War a thousand years ago.

Ignoring the screams of both the combatants they left behind, as well as those of the jailed, the Priestess and her huntresses pressed on. "Food!" "Water!" "Light!" "Mother! Father!" "Save us!"

Pushing through the darkness, the Sentinels eventually happened upon a gigantic rectangular room. In the center there were four pillars of wood, each sending out pulses of green nature magic, holding a single figure up, his arms outstretched as if upon a crucifix.

_Illidan! _Tyrande felt like she was almost in the old days again, until they neared. He had aged, even though night elves were ageless. Wrinkles from anger, hatred, and pain had formed on his face. His wrists and ankles had the top layers of skin chafed off. His back had been tattooed with the symbol of 'traitor' in thalassian calligraphy terminology. His hair, once a full dark blue, had faded and lessened in vibrancy.

Feeling sadness well within her, she approached slowly. "Illidan…is that you?"

The night elf prisoner's ears perked up. He lifted his head, slowly—weakly. "Tyrande? It is your voice. After all these ages spent in darkness, your voice is like the pure light of the moon upon my mind." Tyrande winced as she saw the rest of his face. The scars of the war long ago had not healed, as expected. His eyes were missing, and in their place, two orbs of green flame had taken residence.

"The Legion has returned, Illidan. Your people have need of you once more." Tyrande spoke. Her tone was more harsh than she wanted it to be, and she couldn't find any further words of affection for the one whom had loved her for so long, yet received nothing in return.

"Because I once cared for you, Tyrande, I will hunt down these demons. But—I will _never _'owe' our people anything." Illidan replied, the hate still seething from him.

Tyrande ordered her Sentinels to bring down the barrier that surrounded the imprisoned night elf. As they did, Illidan fell to the floor, and lay for some long moments before slowly standing in a wobbly posture.

"Then let us hurry back to the surface. The demons corruption spreads with every second we waste." Tyrande commanded.

Before the group could move however, the distinct clopping of hooves resonated through the air. From the darkness of the outer reaches of the room, a four legged half-night elf half-stag son of Cenarius appeared.

"Califax…how wonderful that you were here to listen to this." Illidan spat. "What is it that I owe this visit from my jailor? You only cared to meet me once before, an eternity ago when you first sealed me in this wretched sinkhole."

"Priestess Tyrande, greetings. I understand your dire situation on the surface, but to allow you to free this monster, would be to unleash a plague upon the lands. He is as responsible as all the others who partook in the events of the War of the Ancients." Califax spoke.

"Lord Califax, I understand that you have been, with Maiev, the Chief Wardens of these caverns where we exile our worst criminals. However, on the surface, we are losing. We need all that we can—"

Illidan gathered a ball of arcane magic in his hand and tossed it, sending waves of purple magic towards the son of Cenarius. Califax raised his arms, blocking the attacks with two strange weapons on either arm, slipped over his hand. They were first weapons with two long, thick blades that extended to either side of the wrist, and glowed with green enchantment.

"So you still cherish my Blades of Azzinoth? After 10,000 years of thinking and spending time in your cells, I've decided one thing, Califax: I want to kill you." Illidan charged forward with surprising dexterity for one whom had been locked up for so long.

"You are as foolish as the day we buried you down here. Do you see why you cannot free this rabid beast, Preistess? I will not allow it!" Califax called out, blocking a series of punches enhanced with arcane magic by the night elf prisoner.

Tyrande looked on for a few moments, her expressions blank. Suddenly, the Keeper Califax turned and charged at Tyrande herself. The Priestess was barely able to back away before the vicious Blades of Azzinoth lopped off her head.

"What are you—"

"You have freed him and have the intent of returning him to the surface. I won't allow it, Priestess! Even if you are the one doing this!"

Without giving Tyrande the time to even pull out her bow or knife, the Keeper jumped into the air, and swung Illidan's blades at her. Inches away from her face, the blades suddenly diverted and followed the Keeper as he was blown into a wall by a blast of magic. Illidan stomped over to the son of Cenarius and charged his hand with a drill of energy, preparing to kill the unconscious Califax.

"Illidan! Stop!" Tyrande called out. In mid-strike, the night elf paused. "There is no need to kill him. Lets go."

"They will pursue me. I don't want to be pursued." Illidan remarked, scowling.

"Leave him be Illidan. If not for his own sake, then for mine." Tyrande pleaded.

Illidan looked back and forth for a second between the two, cursed, spat on Califax, and bent down to retrieve the Keeper's blades, then laughed sadistically. He punched and kicked the Keeper until he was bloody, regardless of Tyrande's calls. "These belong to me, Califax. You're lucky she saved your life. Next time…I'll kill you."

Tyrande gulped as she felt the massive killing intent around Illidan. He had become another person after all these years. Had the darkness and loneliness truly driven him insane? In any case, they began their march back to the surface in absolute silence, passing by the corpses of both night elves, Keepers, and Wardens. Maiev was no where to be found. A long, awkward, silent walk followed, as Illidan paid no heed to anything surrounding them, simply walking alone, seemingly passive.

As the group found their way back to the surface of the cave, Tyrande spotted Furion's group. Surrounding him were dozens of new druids, allies from the deeps.

Furion looked over and instantly his face turned to the darkest Tyrande had ever seen it, both figuratively and literally, as the night elf druids face flushed with anger. He glanced at Tyrande, shooting her a gaze that froze even the fearless Priestess to her core. Slowly, she backed away, knowing the crime she had committed.

"Illidan…" he hissed.

"It has been an eternity, Brother. An eternity spent in darkness" Illidan said the words with disgust, as if toying with the phrase for the past ten millennia.

"You were sentenced to pay for your sins, nothing more." Furion replied.

"And who were you to judge me?! We fought the demons side by side if you recall. Or is it madness that has clouded my memories?" Illidan raged.

"Enough of this, both of you!" Tyrande spoke up. "What is done is done. My love, with Illidan's help, we will drive the demons back once again and save what is left of our beloved land."

Furion turned his gaze from Illidan back to Tyrande. "Have you even considered the cost, Tyrande? This Betrayer's aid may doom us all by the end. I will have nothing to do with this."

As the group set out, Tyrande felt an almost palpable grating in the air between the two. Furion and Illidan marched at opposite ends of the line, slept at different sites, and even refused to be in each others presences. As a matter of fact, Illidan constantly kept his distance from everyone, even Tyrande.

The Priestess sighed. Though true hatred and sickness for one another separated the two, they still acted like brothers. She preferred to remember the old times, when their quarrels weren't life threatening.

The next day, Arathi Highlands, battle plain

Valdar Justax took a deep breath, holding in the smells of the battlefield for a moment before letting them seep out of his nostrils. Opening his eyes, he saw the smoldering remains of the battlefield.

Tattered banners of the Alliance, its nations, sub-organizations, provinces, peoples, and towns flying everywhere, impaled into the ground. They'd won. Supposedly.

Puffy clouds passed by overhead, glimpsing at the once green fields of Arathi, now charred and covered in bodies. Smoke rose up from the dying fires to meet them, stretching, but not fully reaching the realm of clouds. It had been a full day, and yet the bodies were still being piled high.

"Valdar, we need to keep moving. The undead are on the run now, and we need to chase them down." Alain Serath announced, standing behind Valdar. The surviving generals had met as the undead retreated. They didn't exactly know why the hordes of the Scourge had fallen back, but it had been right after the massive explosion in the center of their lines, even though they still outnumbered the Alliance.

"Chase them down with what?" Thorr Steelhewer spat. "We've lost at least 20,000 yesterday to wounds and death. Your damn plan was a bloodbath, Black Wolf!"

"Shut up." Valdar replied.

"How was he supposed to know that the demons would blow up such a large portion of their own army?" Alain came to Valdar's defense. "And besides, we won't know the casualty figures until the coming days."

"The 11th is in complete shambles. Tallheart is missing, probably dead. Most of his troops are gone. My men are down a third of their strength. I can only imagine what its like for everyone else. I walked through the fields. I _saw _the dead." Thorr raged.

Belinda Aalar grimaced. The Dalarani mage had survived the near epicenter of the explosion, like Valdar. They had lived where so many had died. Casper was found, but he'd taken great damage to his torso and right arm due to shrapnel. The field doctor had told Valdar that they might have to amputate.

Thorek Ghent and Osra had managed to survive as well, being further back from the destruction. The one day battle however had nearly wreaked the Alliance.

After the explosion, the offensive had slowed to a halt. The undead struck hard against the Alliance left, and slaughtered most of the fighters there. It was said that Tallheart had ridden out himself and rallied his men, holding together pockets of resistance until the undead's abrupt retreat, though the costs had been staggering.

"I'll be able ta bring up some moore dwarves by week's end, if'n ya can wait." Magni Bronzebeard spoke, his air of magnificence and kingliness breaking through the tension.

"We can't wait a week. Unless we ride out to strike the undead now, they'll regroup, raise more horrors, and return to Stromgarde." Valdar said, pointing North West where the Scourge had fled.

Apparently, the army that had been besieging Strom had broken its camp as well, returning to the main force which had fought here yesterday. News was sketchy, but it seemed Strom had taken a great deal of damage, though its soldiers still held at least two thirds of the city.

Valdar believed he knew why they undead were retreating; Haures. The mage whom had referred to himself as Cyrus of the Excubitores had told him a long and strange tale after the battle had ended, and declared that he would not rest until Haures was dead.

_Neither will I. _Valdar thought of Ellena, unconsciously rubbing the ring on his finger.

Just then, cheers began to erupt from the campsite. The leaders of the Alliance moved over to the ledge that overlooked their battered army. A man flanked by a group of perhaps two dozen horsemen rode through the camp at a slow trot, their flags dulled by the growing darkness.

"And who might this be…" Belinda muttered.

"No doubt some Stromgardian lord who wants to pledge his two hundred men to our cause." Thorr grunted.

Standing straight, Valdar felt the wind almost literally knocked out of him as the horsemen approached. He recognized those flags!

"Greetings, leaders of the Alliance Combined Armies. I am Marcus Jonathan, Paramount General of the Lordaeron Expeditionary Force." The lead man announced, dismounting. His armor was polished and shiny, all gold's and blues with a great lion's head in the center, its mane fluffed and mouth open wide, roaring.

"Excuse me…?" Thorr stammered.

"We are from the Kingdom of Stormwind. I have come as the ambassador of my people, the leader of its armies, and the relief the South has so long promised. I hope we are in time." Marcus Jonathan said, taking off his plumed helmet to reveal a graying head and salt-and-pepper mustache.

Belinda looked away, and Valdar noticed Alain beginning to choke back tears. He felt them himself, but refused to let them out.

"You—thank the Light." Thorr Steelhewer kissed the ground.

"Bless ole Varian Wrynn. I knew he wouldn't'a abandoned the Alliance." Magni called for a keg of his ale.

"I come with the might of Stormwind at my back. Though we lost a great many ships in a battle against an undead fleet, braved the dangerous mountain passes of Dun Hekal, and slogged through the ash of the Burning Steppes, we have arrived. With me are 50,000 of my country's finest."

"I think we can continue this war after all." Valdar smiled. At his hip, he touched the sword he'd picked up yesterday. _With Stormwind, and with this, we _can _win._

**End of Act VII**

Ancient Night Elf Civilization

The ancient night elves possessed an empire that spanned much of the super-continent Kalimdor, ruled by the benevolent Queen Azshara. Having grown into existence upon the shores of the Well of Eternity, the night elves were blessed with immortality from years and most sicknesses.

They practiced arcane magic in many forms, and were the first (and last apart from the high elves) civilization to have artificially redirected Ley-lines to bring easy magical use to even the most remote settlements.

Apart from the even more ancient Trollic Imperium Wars, the night elves suffered little fighting apart from some domestic strife here and there, and were thus taken almost completely by storm when the Burning Legion pounded most of their central cities into oblivion.

The ancient night elves were the first to invent the pillar, arch, the concept of zero, gravity, the dome, and phalanx, which they used to defeat the already fracturing Troll Empires, an almost worldwide dominion in which the trolls ruled, as well as much more. Many night elves in this time were also philosophers, pondering the stars, existentialism, art, and the beauty of the world.

Masters of arcane magic, they listened little to the ways of nature, until a certain student of Cenarius began to show great promise under the demi-god's tutelage. That night elf was Furion Stormrage.

(Author's note: Hey everyone! Thanks for reading the latest chapter. We're drawing to a close here, so make sure that you review and give me any feedback and information you might think will be required in the coming chapters/anything that I've wronged or ret conned. I'd also like to thank my friend High Elf Swordsman for helping ghost write a small part of the chapter. Till next time!

PS. Longest chapter in the story to date! Heck yeah!

-Omegatrooper)


	40. Chapter 39: Destinies Convergent

**Final Act**

**Chapter** **39: Destinies Convergent  
**

_A month has passed since the bloody victory in Stromgarde. After reforming, the Alliance Combined Armies, now fully replenished with the reinforcements from Stormwind, advanced in pursuit of Haures and Kel'thuzad's Scourge. _

_Moving north, the High Command came into knowledge that the capitol of the country, Strom, was still under siege, though most of the Scourge surrounding it had regrouped with the main force, a constantly growing force of demons was continuing to rain havoc upon the city. Detaching the Dogs of War to relieve the beleaguered metropolis, the Alliance continued forward, liberating much of the land which had been occupied by the Scourge, passing beyond the ruins of Thoradin's Wall, returning at last to Lordaeron. _

_Once there, it became clear that the Scourge was pulling most of its southern forces back to the Dalaran, where it would force a final confrontation. _

_Thousands of miles away, in Kalimdor, the battle against the Burning Legion raged in earnest. At the heed of the night elves and the arch-druid Malfurion Stormrage, the creatures, peoples, and even spirits of the realm began to come together to combat the demons. Illidan Stormrage, recently unchained from his shackles in the Gallows Deeps, excelled in slaying the demons. Hunting them down without discretion and without mercy, Illidan slew countless demons, hoping perhaps to redeem himself in the eyes of Tyrande Whisperwind. _

_However, his thirst for magic continued to grow, becoming an obsession. Away from the watchful eyes of the Sentinels and druids, Illidan stripped the magic from the demons he defeated, quenching his need, if only for a while. _

_Thrall and Jaina Proudmoore, along with the respective New Horde and Survivors of Lordaeron, continued to struggle for survival, fighting off undead, demons, and now the new enemy, the purple-skinned elves. _

_However, as was planned, a certain prophet prepared to make his return, and create the catalyst that would end the war once and for all. _

Strom, Stromgarde

Thoras Trollbane rubbed his eyes. They were bloodshot and pained. He'd had no sleep for days, and was beginning to see things darting by when they weren't actually there. But he couldn't let up. All his men, no, all the people of Stromgarde, were suffering with him.

Already greatly abandoned after the Arathi Empire's downfall, Strom had slowly continued its decline through the years, even as the kingdom of Stromgarde had claimed it as its capitol, the people deciding rather to move to the new cities in the west, the countryside, or even other kingdoms. The damned demons and undead had done a number on Strom, as well as the entire country, in their invasion.

However, Strom still stood, even after taking three incredible hits from first the Scourge, and then the demons as the undead pulled back, presumably to fight the Alliance forces.

Stromgarde was still alive. Its heart was still beating. Too and fro his soldiers went, rushing back and forth to plug in the gaps. However, they were running out of people to plug with. He'd had nigh a Stromgardian legion at his command defending the city a month ago, but starvation, ravaging disease, and grinding urban warfare had sanded his force down to a fifth of its original size.

When the first attack came his troops had fought in the open fields and ancient, decaying roads before the city. They then pulled back and fought like lions upon the causeway until the pressure was simply too great. The giant flying demons and the horrifying undead broke through, smashing open the Imperial Gates, gutting the city's lobby and forum before they were pushed back.

That night fires raged throughout the central quarters, leaving many of the buildings as blackened husks. On the second attack, the next day, the undead pushed all the way to the keep, breaking through to the Mercantile District, burning as they went.

After that, he hadn't had enough soldiers to defend the entire city, so they'd made a strategic retreat, funneling all the women and children into the catacombs and making an emergency dig through the sewers to the sea on the cliffs below the city. There, they'd begun construction on a fleet of small, rickety canoes to ferry the populace out, though he, King of Stromgarde, refused to allow the city which had stood untaken for three thousand years to fall to a pack of monsters.

And so he, and the army, remained. The third attack had effectively split the city in half, and so they'd had to navigate underground, using those same sewers and catacombs to trade supplies. Those that remained were now hardened: they knew that they would live and die here, with the Mother of Stromgarde.

Thoras walked briskly beneath the statues of his forefathers, two guards behind his flapping crimson cloak. Looking up to them sometimes, he would pray for guidance and assistance.

Close by was the ancient Sepulcher, a decrepit place long abandoned which had once been the center of worship for heathen gods before the Light's missionaries had traveled to Strom, converting its population.

Thoras stepped into the Sepulcher and observed the surroundings for a few moments. Some of his soldiers stopped and watched him as he entered the forbidden place.

Kneeling down, the old, strong king picked up a handful of dirt from the ground. In front of him, at the center of the Sepulcher's circle, a huge, dead werwood tree stood, its thickets of branches blocking out the gray sky. A face had been carved into the tree long ago. It represented the long gone God of Fates. The place had always felt very spiritual.

As a child he was forbidden to enter the grove, but did so with his friends; other children of the court, bored by the incessant prattle of the older generations. When the city had been fuller in the elder days, children had played here as well. It was a rare outcropping of nature in a city of stone and swords.

Young Syrael had played here as well once. But now that son was gone. He'd perished in the fields in front of Dalaran leading a glorious charge into the enemy, even though Thoras had told him not to go. He boy had taken a great portion of Stromgarde's army against his will, and for that he'd been furious, but that fury turned to pride and grief once the news of his fate had come.

He'd died the way a Stromgardian prince should…but he'd remained in mourning for many long weeks and months. Still in his heart, there was a hole that could never be plugged, but the gruff old king lifted his head as he heard one of his soldiers calling out.

"My King! The demons!"

From the sky, dozens, no hundreds of fireballs descended. From the gray clouds, swooping downwards were clouds of doomguard. He heard the sounds of an attack coming from outside the gate. Suddenly, the barricades they'd erected near the Merchants Quarter entrance were thrown open, an explosion of wooden and metal splinters. Men were tossed in the air as huge and small and grotesque demons all alive rushed into the quarter.

"Here me, you old gods. I will do what I must to save this city, or at least bury its name in the glory it deserves. Grant me the power to do this!" Thoras shouted out at the werwood tree. He grabbed another handful of dirt and caked it on his face.

"Come on you bastards!" Thoras shouted out, unsheathing his long broadsword, the Trol'kalar. It was the same famed runeblade wielded by none other than the great Lord Ignaeus, the Trollbane, first of the Trollbanes and first Emperor of the Arathi Empire. It had slain more trolls than any other weapon ever made, and its color reflected the history.

As Thoras rushed toward the breach in the wall, the world seemed to slow. Details he'd never noticed stood out. The world seemed brighter and darker at the same time. The breathing of sweaty, tired, metal and leather clad footmen rushing to and fro was amplified. He smiled, thirsty for blood. Already accepting whatever fate had in store for him, he rushed forward with Trol'kalar, a throng of men surrounded him, and a taste for carnage in his gut.

"To me! TO ME MEN OF STROM! FOR THE CITY! FOR YOUR ANCESTORS, FOR STROMGARDE!!!" The mass of men rushed headlong into the mix of monsters, standing no chance was talons and tentacles and fangs ripped them to shreds.

Upon the ramparts, the piled bodies of dead demons made a ramping tower that allowed many of the smaller bastards onto the walls. Felhounds rushed about, slaying the archers in the turrets.

"Sire! They're pulling back!" someone realized.

Covered in blood, both human and demon, Thoras stopped for a moment, stopping his cutting. What? What was going on? Why where they stopping their attack? They were winning…

The felhounds on the walls abandoned their positions, and the demons suddenly turned their heads to the north, as if hearing something more horrible than themselves approaching. They slowly marched out of the city, leaving the few remaining defenders stunned.

"By the Light! Its them!" voices called out in the turrets. They saw something…

Thoras rushed up the stairways, onto the ramparts, careful not the slip or trip of the blood and bodies. Entering the closest turret, he saw with his eagle-like eyes the rank and file of an army…an army of humans, elves, and dwarves. The demons were pulling up in front of the city to confront them.

Smiling wryly, he looked towards the vicinity of the Sepulcher and its werwood tree. "Perhaps…"

Outside Strom

"We need to hurry up and finish this shit so we can get back to the main fight!" someone in Graham Shoemaker's unit blurted out.

"Strom is the ancient seat of human civilization. There's so much worth saving here." Harrel, a 1st Pike responded.

"Ancient seat, ancient seat! It must be loaded with treasure! I've heard they already destroyed the city. We can take the loot of what's left over now that everyone in it's dead!" another, Mikail, a Hillsbrad man said excitedly.

"What, you don't want to log like your old man for the rest of your days?" Graham laughed. Mikail's family had a long lineage of…well, logging. Cutting down trees was their job since the founding of Hillsbrad, whenever that was. Graham didn't really care.

"You shouldn't disturb the dead. You will only upset their ghosts." A harsh voice came down upon the trio. Their captain, Quake T. as he was known, put an end to their endless rabblerousing. The man was deeply religious and was slated to become a priest in Wallaceburg until a series of unfortunate events originating with the Plague had him ending up as an officer of pikes in an army that didn't even belong to the Alliance. "The Black Wolf wants this place freed up as soon as possible…and no, and I mean _no _looting. Need I remind you it's punishable by death?"

Mikail grunted, looking away. The other men, and even some women, all dirty and mailed, were lining up. Their formation, quick with drill and experience, quickly assembled. The first line lay their pikes at stomach height vertically, the next line somewhat inclined a few degrees pointing up towards the necks of their enemies. Behind them, another series of pikes stood head level, and again behind that even further up and so on and so forth until the pikes reached toward the sky completely horizontally. There was no telling when a flying demon would come at you from above.

Even though the sun had set two hours before, a trumpet call from behind the masses of men came up, the squealing sound the reminder of the gut wrenching battle about to come. Assembling, the unit came together like pieces of a puzzle in instants. Other units formed to their sides, completing a line just as how they'd been drilled. From behind a dozen horsemen rode past, led by an elf in a tattered, muddied while robe.

"Wizards…" Mikail muttered. The sorcerers were the army's greatest weapon, and greatest weakness. No normal man would trust those who dabbled in magic, but none could so without them.

Riding forward, the wizards unleashed a torrent of magic on the hills just beyond the army. The sky lit up as the battle began, and it didn't take long before the wizards came flying back, retreating in the face of the overwhelming enemy. They reformed with the first battle lines, and together they both emerged over the hill before Strom.

Graham gasped at the images that were presented to him by the vantage point. The city of Strom was in flames, lighting up the night sky. Great columns of smoke rose from its gutted and ruined interior. The first and greatest city of mankind had been brought to its knees.

Before it, all along the causeway that led over a huge moat were demons of all shapes and sizes. Suddenly, a shout came from the left echelon of the line.

"Doomguard!"

Looking up, Graham saw several of the massive winged demons descend from the smoky air around the city, dropping pieces of rubble or slicing with terrifying flaming swords at the Alliance attack. Arrows, blotting out the stars, pelted the massive doomguard as the wizards returned fire.

The lines and battalions of Alliance conventional forces moved toward the demon army, engaging, but not able to push them back. Many units in fact began to break and run, from exhaustion, fear, or simply the death of a comrade or commander.

In that moment, a contingent of dwarven warriors, led by the mountain king Grim Thunderbrew (distantly related to King Magni Bronzebeard) crashed into the enemy. With two axes in hand, Grim crushed everything in sight. Moving with surprising speed, the dwarf rushed too and fro between infernals, running and jumping up the bodies of enemies ten times his size, before slicing their heads from their bodies.

Even with the reinforcements, the line began to buckle.

"There's no way we can fight that!" Graham blurted out. The writhing sea of demons tore everything apart that came close to them. Whatever was able to reach them was crushed by the flying monsters. The battle was hopeless…and then the sky exploded.

Circle of Power, Outside Strom

Cyrus, along with Belinda and the other Dalarani mages had gathered after their initial sortie. Initiating a circle of power, the troupe began to chant an incantation that he'd learned as an Excubitor and quickly taught them.

As the ritual reached its climax, Cyrus placed his Pillar of Quel'thalas in the center of the circle and a ball of magic shot out from the gem that sat at its top.

The ball of energy flew up into the sky and by reconfiguring the ambient particles of magic in the area to the opposite of what the demons were channeling, it spontaneously combusted.

The entire sky, at a roof of about a hundred feet, exploded for miles around. It was a backlash similar to what Dragias had wanted to do, except on a far smaller scale. As the quick burst of flame dissipated, ash began to fall from the sky like snow: the hundreds of Burning Legion minions that had just been incinerated.

The attack was now redoubled, as the troops were able to reach the enemy now. The sound of thunder, no cannon, also echoed over the horizon as the fleet of Stormwind ships sailed into Strom Harbor. They'd been waiting for the magical attack was a signal.

Surrounded on all sides with their air support gone, and the magic of the Excubitors working against them, the demons were disposed of, though not quickly enough.

As the battle winded down, Cyrus, exhausted, mounted a horse and rode to the head of the columns of cheering troops as they pushed the corpses of the demons off the nearby cliffs.

From within the gutted, ruined city, bedraggled and skinny people began to come forth. Cyrus realized in a moment of shock that these were Strom's soldiers…

They were thin beyond belief, starved in their month long siege. Weapons and armor were scarce enough, and that which remained was reused from dead men, and thus had holes and scratches in it.

The elf sighed. The city had become another example of this damnable war. Entering its battered walls, Cyrus was immediately assaulted by the stench of death and decay.

The Legion had left its mark. Corpses were pinned to the walls, their entrails hanging out. Heads were placed on pikes to frighten the defenders. Cadavers and skeletons were placed in mocking positions intended to anger and cause the warriors of Stromgarde to sally forth and avenge their brother's humiliation. He even saw one body with its head cut off and an eagle's head sown onto the stump. It had been placed in plain sight of one of the two holdouts of Stromgardians. Stromgarde's symbol was its red eagle.

The city might as well have been taken. Everything was already destroyed. The elf as amazed that there were still humans residing within it. _Yet, these people, and even most humans, are resilient to ends which would amaze all elves. _

"This is my first time to Strom." A voice came from behind him. It was Valdar Justax. "I had hoped to come to this city one day, to see the seat of ancient human power. But all that I can see now is a catastrophe. Yet another in a long line of disasters this past year."

"What are you doing here?" Cyrus implied. "Don't you have to meet with King Thoras?"

"I already did. There's not much to talk about. He doesn't have many men to spare for the counter attack. And besides, he's probably not in the position to be making such decisions anyhow.

His country is lawless, depopulated, and devastated. Without the peasantry that were run off the land by the Scourge, who will there be to raise the crops for the next year? Without the nobles and their feudal guards to offer protection to the peasants, how many will come back? Though Stromgarde's survived the invasion, it might not survive the aftermath." Valdar said melancholically.

"Stromgarde is filled with warriors. They will find a way." Cyrus replied.

"I hope so for their sake."

"Justax…you look tired." Cyrus observed. Black bags hung below the human's eyes. His face was gaunt, stretched, and white.

"I haven't been sleeping much lately."

"I see. The dreams? Are they keeping you awake?"

Valdar nodded. Every veteran had dreams of the horrors they'd encountered, though for a while now his had turned to night terrors that had kept him from closing his eyes.

"I have intended to ask you, Justax: are you prepared to give your life for this mission of yours? Are you ready to face death at the end of your destiny?"

The human boy was silent for a few moments. "If you are not ready to die yourself, then don't pick up the weapon. My father always taught me such." He unsheathed the shimmering weapon of the Titans. Holding it in both hands he stared down at the shifting, crystalline blade.

"I picked this up knowing exactly what I was getting myself into. I will do what has to be done, even if it means death." Valdar spoke.

"Honorable, but be wary of such oaths and words. Great men have fallen prey to evil with such nobility. I have seen too much of that in my day."

"Very well, elf. If you see me stray from the path I speak of today, I hold you responsible to pull me back in."

"I support you in whatever way I can. Together, we will end this war." Cyrus announced.

"Aye, in Dalaran."

"In Dalaran…where Haures awaits."

Felwood

Illidan Stormrage cartwheeled out the way as a flaming sword brushed through the air toward him. The massive muscles of the creature that guided the sword rippled and glistened with sweat as it swung again and again at the demon hunter. This time it cut clean through several trees as Illidan backed away.

Though some of the night elves cringed at the destruction of the trees, Illidan simply didn't care. 10,000 years of supposed contrition had left him more bitter and sickeningly furious than before. Furion had lamented endlessly at the loss of life and nature in the forests, all to Illidan's silent seething. He'd been forbidden again by his brother to use magic, though in secret he'd been practicing his spells and regaining the strength he'd lost in his lonely imprisonment. He'd even lost what little of Tyrande Whisperwind's favor he had left. The disgust of his one true love had been the last straw.

Slashing at the demon, Illidan's memory sparked in and out of the past, toward another bygone era when he'd fought with the night elves. He'd been an elf possessed when hunting and destroying the demons with the elite Moon Guard of the Azsharan Empire. The work he'd committed himself to for years, all for nothing. Everything he'd done then was for the night elves, and Tyrande. And when he saved the Waters of Eternity within those Vials, to gift the future generations with a source of magical power, what had been his reward? What had happened to him, after he'd sacrificed so much in war? Even now he could tell the looks and reactions of the night elves around him. They were warped against him, like a concave mirrior.

Betrayal. Imprisonment. Scorned and loathed he'd been shackled to the blackness for all those melleniums in utter isolation, left to ponder his 'crimes and sins'. Illidan ran between the doomguard's legs and sliced either one with his two arm-blades of Azzinoth, cutting the creature's legs nearly in half. Screaming, the doomguard toppled.

Arrows, scythes, blades, and shuriken cut through the air. The Sentinels here were fighting to protect the evacuation of the small townlet of Taloncrest, which had waited until the last possible moment to call for help, after the demons had already rampaged through their streets cutting down their children. When the Sentinels arrived, they decided it was time to leave, and began running for their lives. Ungrateful bastards.

Furion was up ahead directing his druids in battle. No where to be seen were his great armies of wild beasts, treants, and spirits of the forest, for in this wood, the Corruption had already spread beyond control. Furion feared that the only way to save it was to burn it down, but even then, the soil was so deeply engrossed in the Burning Legion's disease, that nothing could ever heal it. The very heart of the land was corrupted, lest it would send the wisps to aid Furion. It would be a scar upon Kalimdor forever. The trees were rotting alive, and the undergrowth had already turned into a dark, tangled incarnation of its former self. The sky itself reflected the pall of the land; it was various hues of sickly greens, and angry reds. Not that Illidan cared. No, the only thing he fought for now was to prove himself in Tyrande's eyes...and his freedom.

Illidan suddenly sensed a hundred pairs of eyes looking at him. Twisting, he caught a fel-hound right in the mouth before it bit into his flesh, cutting it from head to tail in half. Black-purple blood sprayed all over the demon hunter who grinned in excitment. Anything was better than the despairing depths of the Warden's prison. Not even having to look, Illidan knew that dozens more of the fel-hounds were gathering around him, ignoring the rest of the Sentinels. He could tell due to his eyes...or, lackthereof. During the War of the Ancients he'd been gifted with the 'sight of magic'. It was an incredible, world changing new perspective. No longer bound by night or day, light or dark, he could sense the wafts and winds of the mysterious energy of the Waters, even as they'd been spread across the world after the Sundering.

The demons...they looked to be bright stars from which new, savory magic welled and rippled out from. He could see each and every one of them. As the cadre of fel-hounds gathered, Illidan turned to face them. He was backed up against a rock, with a semi-circle of demons slowly inching forward. Two rushed forward and he did the same. Jumping into mid air, he crossed his arms and glided between them, cutting them each into slabs with incredibly fast motions. He landed in the midst of the pack, swirled, again killing several more. Acrobatically he jumped to the side as another fel-hound rushed at him, grabbed it by the neck and easily broke the creature's spine. The hunter threw the corpse at the pack of fel-hounds which caused them to back up. Just what he wanted. In the instant that they lost their pressing advantage he advanced, sending limbs and heads flying around the forest.

Dripping with thick black fluid, Illidan laughed manically as he cut down the weakling creatures. In the midst of his attacks however, one of the fel-hounds found a hole in his sight and latched its magic-sucking tentacles upon his back, the barbs sinking deep into his body. He stopped his attack as he felt his magic slowly draining. Turning, he grabbed the demons appendages and put his hand over them. Smirking, he ripped the tenticles out of the demon's back, ran up to it, and delivered a crushing kick to its chest.

Just then however, he noticed several very different magical signatures gliding thorugh the dead forest. _Eredar..._the Legion's sorcerrers, and some of them even its leaders. They'd finally shown themselves.

_One...two...three, and four. _There were four of them. Though they might have been camoflauged to a night elf's eye, he could see them shining amidst a dark world, standing out like a tree in a desert as they summoned the magical power to produce a spell. In a split second, the demon hunter noticed that they were not going to fire at him, but Furion, whom was too busy fighting with his druids to notice the sudden danger of assassins. Even if Illidan did shout out now, it would be too late. The spells were reaching critical mass in the hands of the eredar.

_Damnation. _Illidan did the only thing he could do and released the massive buildup of magic he'd been storing within himself since he'd been freed. In a swirling cyclone of black magic that destroyed everything around him cell by cell, Illidan charged forward and erected a sealing barrier spell that absorbed the sudden blows of the shadow bolts released by the eredar. The barrier broke like glass as it absorbed the shock of the attacks. For an instant, Illidan felt Furion's rage. The druid redirected his attention however to his would be assassins. With their positions left wide open after the attack, the druid lifted his hands. Columns of earth erupted around the demon spellcasters, enclosing them in domes of crushing rock and soil. The pressure crushed them within instants.

With that, the demons began to retreat, their most powerful troops defeated. Furion turned to Illidan. "You fool! I told you never to magic again!"

"Have you no decency, Illidan? No sense of responsibility?" a Sentinel cried out.

"Do you think I could honestly comply with that 'order', _brother?_" Illidan hissed.

"Its that same magic that brought this destruction to the world, Illidan. Has your imprisonment taught you no penance?" Furion shook his head.

"Its because of me that you're alive and the Legion is routed." The demon hunter reminded his brother.

"Don't think to lecture me, Illidan. I could have survived that attack. Though I'm grateful-"

"I didn't do it for you, Malfurion."

"I see...Tyr-" The druidic Stormrage was interrupted by a huntress who appeared on the scene. She quickly glanced at Illidan in distrust. Furion nodded, motioning for her to speak.

"Archimonde has been sighted in northern Ashenvale leading the main force of the Legion. He marches towards Hyjal!"

Furion closed his eyes, letting his anger evaporate. A deep calm came over the setting, even amidst the growing corruption. "I will go south to Ashenvale. Its a day's ride, so we will be able to gather up Tyrande's forces as well. Illidan Stormrage, you will defeat the Legion here in the Felwood."

"I'm surprised you let me even stay here, but you will need all the power you can muster to fight Archimonde if its true the arch-demon has returned." Illidan spoke. Though he didn't want to be around Furion any longer, it was the perfect chance to show everyone his power.

"No. If there is a chance the demons will reclaim their hold over you, I will not take it." Furion ended the conversation, turning away leaving a seething Illidan behind. It was commonly thought that he'd betrayed the night elves for the Legion, but in the end had done so to get closer to the Well of Eternity which had been under the Legions control since the beginning of the War of the Ancients. No one however, would believe him.

"As you wish...great Malfurion." Illidan murmured under his breath in sarcasm.

Blackclover Monastery, Hillsbrad Hills

It felt good to once again be in Lordaeron. The sloping highlands of Stromgarde had been rocky and cold, even if it was the end of spring. Here, the warmth of a new season pervaded strongly.

After the victory at Strom, the rearguard of the Alliance forces, his Dogs of War, had been recalled to the rapidly changing front. The city was in absolute shambles, most of it destroyed beyond seeming repair. King Trollbane had survived the month long siege, but with grievous wounds. His 5,000 Stromgardian defenders had been reduced to a mere thousand able to fight, including wounded. The same could be said for the population of the city itself.

The once highly coveted west coast metropolis's of Stromgarde, where most if its population was settled, had been utterly razed. The central portion of the country too had been occupied, small pockets of, as always, heroic Stromgardian resistance at Hammerfall and Refuge Pointe, holding out while all hell was broken loose around them.

Leaving behind several contingents of Stormwind soldiers, all Alliance troops were ordered forward. Galen Trollbane, second son of the King, departed his country with a force of 500, all pulled together literally at the last minute, and marched beside Valdar's army.

Valdar plodded alongside his men. He'd given his horse away to those who were too sick to walk, refusing the officer's luxury. To the left of the column of Dogs was a lonely monastery, standing amidst a grassy field with several tall oaks surrounding it. It looked like it had seen better times. The attendants inside must have been run off by the undead. By it, a field hospital had been set up.

The signs of armies on the move were abound, as stragglers, abandoned wagons, bits and pieces of cloth, animal bones, and the rest of the flotsam that men on the move left behind them.

"Lord Justax, is it?" a voice startled Valdar.

"Aye?"

"I am Friar Quintus of the Blackclover Monastery. I am so pleased to meet a hero such as yourself." A bent monk wrapped in brown robes said, approaching from the Monastery.

"I'm not a hero. I'm just doing what I think is right. The same goes for all of these men. So if you consider that selfishness heroism, then everyone here is a hero." Valdar said vehemently. He despised it when people singled him out amidst his troops.

"A-as you s-s-ay." The monk was taken aback by Valdar's tone. Changing the subject, he held out a thick book, no doubt intended to be copied into libraries one day. "I am writing a history of Lordaeron and was wondering if I could get some of your input, as you are a major mover in the history of our country—I mean, you and your…people."

"Our country? Not much left of it if you ask me. You've got this strip of Hillsbrad and maybe some outposts in Silverpine and that's about it, wouldn't you say?" Valdar replied realistically.

"Indeed, but are you not to charge back north and re-conquer the heartland?" The monk (or was he really just a journalist?) inquired.

"Maybe in time, but for now, we've got to focus on what we can reach, sir. In war, there's no such thing as simply 'charging' and 'conquering'. Maybe if you saw some of it, you'd understand. We're looking for volunteers…perhaps you'd be interested?" Valdar smiled slyly.

"Oh no! A man of the cloth such as myself would never be able to withstand the—spartan conditions of a soldier. I would be a liability."

Valdar scoffed. "Very well then. I suggest you wait for the end of this war before you begin to write about it, lest you skew your facts."

"Lord Valdar, General Tallheart and Jonathan are calling together a meeting." A runner announced, breaking up the conversation.

"General Tallheart's alive!?" Valdar exclaimed.

"Indeed sir. He was just brought to the front line in a hospital wagon. Though he was injured numerous times, he is still alive. They are calling together a council of war for the attack on Dalaran."

"So the beginning of the end has finally arrived." Valdar whispered.

Ashenvale, Kalimdor

Jaina Proudmoore panted as yet another abomination collapsed, spilling its putrid guts as the poorly stitched creature hit the ground. The Scourge attack was turned back.

Falling to her knees, the sorceress watched as the final moments of the fight played out. Knights from six countries routed and cut down the remaining enemy, but there would be more soon. There always was.

A group of orcs stuck to their side of the field, not intent on even attempting to socialize with the humans, elves, or dwarves. The two groups, even though they'd been fighting together now for a long time, remained at odds. Old hatreds died hard indeed.

Light streamed though the green canopy, making its way gently towards the dark, bloodied undergrowth. For months the fight had gone on, seemingly without end. If it wasn't the wildlife, it was demonized orcs. If it wasn't them, it was the Legion. If not them, then the damned UNDEAD, whom they'd been trying to escape from in the first place.

The young princess wanted nothing more than to climb into a warm bed and read a book on the logics of the Seven Arcanes. They were all tired. The soldiers of their expedition had been marching and fighting for these months. Their attempts to escape to a better world had been met with one just as bloody and petty as the last. But they still looked to her for leadership for some reason.

Jaina sighed. Why did they trust her? Was it her title? Her heritage? The fear of doom as the demons rained from the sky? It did that here too. Natural charisma she'd never known about? Jaina laughed at that last thought. She was never a leader before the Prophet had talked her into this mad dash across the world. She'd been more than a little nervous just talking the crowds of people into making crazy voyage.

And now they were allied with the orcs fighting demons, living dead, pig-men, purple skinned elves, and gods only knew what else was held in store for them. The world had turned upside down.

They'd lost hundreds, if not thousands in the journey. Originally there had been more than 25,000 people whom had followed her: men, women, and children. Long columns had marked out a trail of tears across Kalimdor as they made their march from the initial landing sites to this lush forest.

There were more stragglers every day. She remembered one old man whom she'd gone up to and tried to help up during a march. His words still haunted her. _I cannot go on, Princess. Believe me, if I could, I would. _He then lay down and died right there in front of her. The exhaustion was crushing. But they kept going. When would the hell end? Sometimes she thought it would have just been better fighting it out in the Eastern Kingdoms, though for all she knew, they were crushed into utter oblivion by now. These might be the last humans in the world…the thought of that responsibility, being their leader, petrified her…but she kept going.

"Garosh khe nan nia iekf!" a familiar voice echoed amongst the trees. An orc, surrounded by massive, hulking armored kor'kron guardsmen, approached on a white she-wolf. He was, himself, gigantic, standing almost eight feet tall, covered from neck to toe in rare, ebon orcish armor.

"A good fight that was, Proudmoore!" Thrall shouted, excitement, but also some tire in his voice. "You humans still surprise me. Who would have thought you could stand up against those corpses as they arose from your own ranks? Impressive, even to some of my veteran commanders!"

"Thank you, Warchief. Your orcs withstood the demon charges well." She replied, returning the seeming orcish courtesies. "I must speak with you alone Thrall."

"Ma'am! That could be dangerous!" a footman intervened. "He's an orc. You never know what those—"

"Please move out the way. I don't have the time nor the will to waste in an argument." Jaina gently pushed the man aside. Some of Thralls shamans and kor'kron were trying to get him to stop as well it seemed. He briskly pushed them aside and began to walk into the wood, motioning for Jaina to follow.

"What is it you wish to speak of, Proudmoore?"

"Various things; firstly, the attitude of your warriors towards my commanders. They refuse to obey them, and threaten to kill them if they are forced to command."

"I can see such things from their point of view. For an orc, especially our older generations, it would be dishonorable to obey the commands of pinkskins. But I will talk to them about this. I will make sure it does not occur again. But you must make sure your followers do not raid my meat supplies again. If they do, I _will _kill whoever we catch."

"Aye, and for that I am sorry, but my people, no, our people, are on the verge of collapse. Don't try to tell me that the orcs are not, because I know they are. Damn your pride, I've seen the orclings crying for lack of food. I've seen your warriors muscles and meat thin away at the constant fighting."

Thrall seemed to stare deeply at her with momentary hate, as if to say _Yes, because your people are stealing the food. _The moment came and went in an instant.

"Though the fight is what we relish, I cannot deny these things. We are at the appointed place the Prophet gave to us, north of the city of ruins and statues. We must be patient now."

_Orcs being patient. Certainly I am going crazy from lack of sleep. _

"Indeed." Jaina sighed again. They would just have to hold on a little longer, until the 'appointed time'.

_On the fifteenth day, just beyond the city of ruins and statues, there is an altar. I will appear there with your final comrades-in-arms. From there, it will be time to strike and destroy the Legion's invasion, once and for all. _

The fifteenth day had come, and there was still no sign of the Prophet. Thrall looked toward the sorceress, and in the strangest gesture she'd ever seen in her life, he nodded, beat his chest, and roared.

"He will come, and we will win this fight." The orc reassured her.

What had the world come to…

"Lady Jaina, the purple elves are attacking Lord Swiftmane's force to the east! He requests assistance!"

"We don't have the men to spare, tell him to-" Jaina was cut off by the Warchief.

"I will send my orcs to assist your warlord. Some tauren too." Thrall spoke up.

"I don't think that's such a good idea, Warchief. Swiftmane is quite...picky about his allies." Jaina replied.

"If he attacks me, this time I will not let him go alive." Thrall said, his previous release of Swiftmane from the orcs prisoner camps after their banding together still quite fresh in everyone's minds. There had probably been no greater curser in the history of humanity than Swiftmane.

"Very well. I wish your orcs luck." Jaina spoke.

"You as well, Proudmoore girl."

Felwood

Illidan looked over the burning, rotting forest from a rocky butte that jutted up from the abyss of the vegetation. Though he was freed, the world was an even less kind place than when he'd left it. It was filled with the same hatred, destruction, and sorrow that he'd left it with.

"After 10,000 years I am free, yet still my own brother thinks I am a villain. I'll show him my true power. I'll show him that the demons have no hold over me..." Illidan cursed. Each year of darkness was an eternity, and each eternity was impossible pain. Whether mental or physical, he still couldn't tell.

Something was coming, and fast. Illidan could sense a force distorting the balance of ambient magic in the region. Turning, he saw upon a skeletal steed a human garbed in thick, black plate, a huge scabbard at his side. The human seemed to be a hole within the magical system around him, sucking it into a never ending well. He was...powerful.

"Are you certain of that, demon hunter? Are you certain your will is your own?" The human said. Somehow he understood the night elves was one of the outlanders, yet a stench hung over him.

"You reek of death, human. You'll regret approaching me." Illidan stood tall, the Blades of Azzinoth glinting at his side. His body seemed to steam with the magic he was gathering around himself. Two green orbs lit up beneath the bandages that covered his eye sockets.

"Come then, you will find us evenly matched." The human dismounted, and pulled his long, vicious looking blade from its sheathe.

Illidan ran forward with a scream, spinning just before meeting the human. Their blades met with a shower of sparks. Purple light burst from the death knight's sword, and green from the night elf's, their magical auras repelling each other. The two were thrown back by the sheer force of each others blows, but recovered and moved forward again, striking and blocking, countering and parrying. For minutes the combinations of attack, defense, repel, and counter attack went on. Even after unleashing their magical potentials, the two could not truly gain an advantage over the other.

As a testimate to their power, the forest around them seemed to either be sliced up, blown down, disintegrated, or burned down in a most unsightly fashion. Even the ground seemed to collect a few more craters.

The death knight loosed a coil of undead magic, but Illidan dodged and unleashed his mana, burning it around his body like an immolation. After that, the death knight couldn't get too close, but Illidan could not defeat him either. The fight was at a standstill.

"We could go on fighting like this forever. What is it you truly want?" Illidan panted as the two disengaged and moved to a safer distance.

The human seemed equally drained. "The dreadlord who commands this undead army is called Tichondrious. He commands a powerful warlock artifact called the Skull of Gul'dan. It is responsible for corrupting these forests."

"And you wish for me to steal it? Why?" Illidan was now inquisitive.

"Lets just say that I have no love for Tichondrious, and the lord I serve would...benefit from the Legion's downfall." The human said.

"Why should I believe anything you say, little human outlander?"

"My Master sees all, demon hunter. He knows you've sought power your whole life. Now it lies within your grasp. Sieze it, and your enemies will be undone."

"What is your name, human?" Illidan stepped forward, prepared to strike again.

"I am Arthas Menethil, first death knight of the Lich King and rightful King of Lordaeron. However, it is not our time to fight. We will meet again." The human turned his back and walked toward his steed, jumping and mounting it in one swift motion. He then rode off into the dark forest, leaving Illidan standing in the midst of a destroyed patch of forest by himself.

"The Skull of Gul'dan, eh?" Something had been bothering him about the Corruption. Clearly it was the Legion's, but it would not simply be spread so fast by the use of fel magic. There must've been something generating it, and now he knew what it was. Bending down, the demon hunter raised one leg in the air and folded it as if sitting whilst the other leg remained planted to the ground. The position helped him think. Letting all the rage and emotion go out of his system for a mere moment, the world around him for miles became clear. He could see birds fleeing the destruction, Furion riding to join forces with Tyrande, and his own encampment of night elves nearby. They would definently come looking for him once they registered the sudden outburst of magical energy atop the lookout butte.

Then, all in that same instant, he saw it. The Skull of Gul'dan: a broiling, flaming sphere of unprecedented magical power. He hadn't seen anything of its caliber since the Waters of Eternity. It was...glorious. It slipped then. His concentration shattered by the sheer power of the artifact, Illidan fell to his knees. Getting up, he knew that it was what they were searching for indeed. The source of the Corruption.

Descending the mountain, he gathered up the Sentinel force, telling them about the Legion's weapon. The Sentinel leader, Yha Cederbow agreed as soon as she heard of the Skull and its corrupting powers, though commanded Illidan to stay near her. He knew that she wanted to keep an eye out for him, but if he truly wanted, he could have easily slain her and her troop. However, though he was the one who was wronged, he would not attack his own kin...without provocation.

Journeying through the dying forest, they fought off bands of sayters whom had emerged from their holes now that the Legion had returned, corrupted flora and fauna, poisinous, mindless treants, and an assortment of demons. There were also numerous undead. Illidan led the way, behind him the column of night elf Sentinels trailing. As they continued and the daylight began to wane, more and more of the night elves became victim to the increasingly dangerous forest. It was as if the land itself was trying to kill them: trees falling, mudslides, and more. The night elves were not used to having nature against them. The irony of it made Illidan chuckle for the first time in 10,000 years.

Behind him he heard the other night elves muttering about the release of the Betrayer, and talking of slaying him after they destroyed the Skull. "I'm blind not deaf." Illidan reminded them. It got them to shut up.

As they closed in on the Skull's location the demon patrols began to thicken. More night elves were slain in battle, and Illidan was forced to use his magic. Yha chastised him continually until she too, was killed when a felguard lopped her head off with a massive axe. Still, the night elf task force pushed on, now having to fight doomguard. They were close to the Skull. Illidan could now see a light that was almost blinding before them. Its power radiated from behind a last set of trees, whose shadows were spun off it like those of a clouds in front of the sun's rays.

Stepping out of the coverage, the night elves beheld a sight that horrified them. For as far as they could see, the rolling hills of trees had been nearly entirely rotted away. Only gray stumps remained. Rivers of green filth ran through the land, and the soil was cracked and bleeding disease. Unnatural mushrooms had begun to sprout everywhere and around them hives of maggots and flies buzzed about. The smell of disease and rot pervaded. The sky had become a yellow cloud of plague. Atop the hill in front of them was a distant object, floating in the air. Next to it however was a massive gate of obsidian, with four obelisks around it channeling energy into it.

"A demon gate..." Illidan murmured. "Come! The source of the Corruption is up there!" He motioned for the remaining few dozen night elves to charge forward, and, to his disbelief, they obeyed his command, though probably more out of duty than loyalty.

As the elves charged up the hill, a force of demons descended it, meeting them in a momentous clash. As the two forces hacked away at each other, Illidan cut his way out of the fight and rushed to the top where two doomguard awaited, guarding the gate and the Skull.

"Hardly a challenge...you paltry demons will not stop me!" he said in indignation. Holding out both his hands, two blue tendrils erupted from the demons, their magic being drained. After a moment, the tendrils turned green as the monster's mana resivours emptied. The doomguard, exhausted, fell to the ground. Illidan reconfigured the elements within the two demons bodies to make them spontaneously combust. As the two monsters screamed in pain, the internal fire burst outwards and engulfed them completely.

Now the only one left on the hill was him. The night elves, if there were any left, were still fighting below. Turning, he beheld the incredible Skull of Gul'dan. The object, the size of a night elf skull, floated in midair, though greenish liquid poured from its mouth, eye sockets, and nose holes.

"Now at least the demons will no longer corrupt the forests. But...if I destroy the Skull..." the thought crept into his mind slowly, like a poisinous snake through the grasslands of the south. "...I will become more powerful than _any _of Archimonde's lieutenants. Yes...the power SHOULD be mine. It _will _be mine!"

Illidan grasped the Skull with his left hand, grinned, and crushed the thin bones with ease. Instantly around him a blackness erupted and engulfed. The ground shook with powerful tremors, and a beam that reached the clouds themselves spiraled with the malevolant, evil magic of the Skull's released powers. As the energy dissapated, an entirely different figure was left standing in the midst of white flames. It was a figure wrapped in shadow, with two eyes of purple staring out from its black head. Two great wings of black spread from its back, and its legs had been transformed to hooves.

The demon let out a laugh. "Now I am complete." Its voice, the voice of something entirely different from what Illidan had once been, echoed in deep bass tones.

A flash of green light shot through the air, and suddenly a dreadlord was standing before Illidan. "What has happened to our Corruption? Where-" The dreadlord slowly turned and noticed a new demon standing where his guards had once been. He then also noticed the still flaming corpses of his minions.

"Tichondrious, I assume?" The demonic Illidan asked.

"What-who are you?" the dreadlord asked in confusion.

"Lets see how confident you are against one of your own kind, dreadlord." Illidan said, his blackened arms moving forward at a speed he couldn't even contemplate moments before. They grabbed Tichondrious' shoulders and began to tug cruelly.

"Damn you, damn you, damn you, you bastard! Betraying the Legion!?" Tichondrious screamed out. He pulled one arm away from Illidan, but the other remained firmly in the former night elf's hand. In a swift motion, Illidan tore the monster's arm off and threw it to the side. The dreadlord screamed in pain, but backed away, wings beating furiously.

"Your Legion is nothing to me, dreadlord. I am going to end you with the power I have finally gained!" Illidan shouted out. He gathered a ball of black energy between his arms, and charged it until black lightning began to buzz around it. Tichondrious, bleeding profusely from his arm socket, raised his remaining arm, calling the carrion that now infested the plagued land to his side. Swarms of ravens, flies, and maggots flew towards Illidan, all pecking and gnawing at his light absorbing hide.

An infernal too dropped from the sky, and as the dreadlord used these creatures for cover, he gathered a shadowbolt of his own, waited for it to charge for a moment, and fired it into the raging swarm of death that engulfed the other demon. Smugly, Tichondrious began to turn. The humiliation he'd suffered at the hands of an unknown opponent...a demon no less! How could he return to the Coven of Dreadlords without his arm? They would banish him for the weakness he represented!

Suddenly, a cone of black energy exploded from within the swarm of creatures. The titanic infernal was blown to bits in an instant. Tichondrious turned and just in time was able to cover his vital points as the blast overtook him. As the blast receeded, standing at the point of the attack was Illidan. Tichondrious was on the floor, some of his flesh seared right off. His armor too had been destroyed.

"No...no, what are you doing?!" The dreadlord began to shout out as he saw Illidan approach. "Stop! Archimonde could use someone like you! The Legion-"

"I told you...your Legion is nothing to me." Illidan raised his hoof and brought it down on Tichondrious' face, crushing the demon's head. Blood splattered outwards from the point of impact. Then, the dreadlord's body began to rise off the ground, spin exponentially fast, and then explode into a swarm of bats.

Illidan tensed his body and roared. The power was incredible. And now it was his.

"Foul demon! What have you done with my brother!?" a familiar voice shouted out. Furion emerged from the hillside, staff in hand.

"I have just destroyed the source of the Corruption, and defeated the leader of the undead." The voice, still alien to even Illidan, spoke.

"You didn't answer my question beast!"

Illidan suddenly realized his brother couldn't recognize him. That much should have been obvious, but he was too elated with his newfound power to notice the change in appearance. "It is I, Furion. This is what I have become."

Furion's face turned from anger, to shock, to sorrow, to pity. Tyrande appeared from the hillside as well. "No...Illidan...how could you?" Her face was contorted in the very pain he'd wished to save her from.

"The forests will heal in time. Archimonde-"Illidan was cut off by Furion.

"You've done this at the cost of your soul..." Furion spoke with a pain Illidan didn't expect him to still carry after so many eons. He looked up. The pain was gone, replaced with animosity "You are no brother of mine! Begone from this place, and never set foot in our lands again!" Furion was barely able to hold back his own attacks.

"So be it..._brother." _Illidan uttered. Turning, he stomped off into the dead forest, off to forge his own destiny. He was again...betrayed.

(Author's note: No, I'm not dead! Sorry about the ridiculous delay guys. I've been going through a point in my life where I have been literally the busiest I've ever been these past few months. That and when I was nearly finished with the draft, it was deleted in an accident so I had to start over. Sorry I haven't gotten to it yet Bien, but yes, I would be honored to help out in your new fic. Anyway, I need to get going to study, but I will continue to update at the regular pace hopefully in the coming months to finish up the story.

Thanks for bearing with me again,

Omegatrooper )


	41. Chapter 40: We Who are about to Die

**Chapter 40: We Who are about to Die...**

_"Ave Cesare! Morituri te salutant."_

_"Hail Caesar, we who are about to die, salute you." Roman gladiator salute before battle. _

Ashenvale Forest

Shadows flickered. Furion was lost. He knew not where to turn. The dark forest was enveloping him, and he knew not anymore how to communicate with it. Aggressive, angry emotions emanated from Nature.

"Have I failed you? Is this why you have stripped me of my power?" Furion asked out loud.

The forest shuddered. Green flames erupted in the sky, overtaking everything. For a moment, Furion felt his flesh burn away from its mortal frame. His spirit was left to witness the horrific carnage of the aftermath.

Skeletons as far as the eye could see lay with the burning remnants of Ashenvale. Not a bird soared in the sky nor a creature moved on land. The hot wind of burning rubble washed over him. The apocalyptic scene struck fear and anguish in the druid's heart. On top of a distant mountain, a final tree remained; Nordrassil, the World Tree.

A giant, silhouetted figure climbed Nordrassil, evil protruding from its form. In a single instant, Furion witnessed Nordrassil suddenly erupt and explode outwards in a flash of blue light. The world was drowned out.

The druid felt himself being tugged downwards, through a deep tunnel. It was much like the ones he would traverse to the Emerald Dream, though this was distinct in its own way.

When he came to the other side, a raven flew against the wind and rain in the midst of a great storm. The raven cried out to him.

"Malfurion Stormrage, rally your people to war! The time of reckoning is at hand, and you are the instrument of fate! Join me at the bluff above the ruins of Jdnar tonight, and the destinies foretold will converge."

In a green flash, the bird disappeared, and the world tore itself apart to blackness.

Furion shot out of the grass he'd been resting on.

"A dream?" he murmured, confused. Night elves did not sleep, and did not have dreams…but what had just happened? It felt like the old days, before their immortality had been gifted to them, when such things did occur.

"What is it my love?" Tyrande turned over. She had been resting her weary muscles against a nearby tree.

Furion was silent and bewildered.

"We must go...now." He answered.

Northern Hillsbrad, Summer

Valdar and his officers rode over the ridge of a hill at full speed, the wind blowing their banners and pennants to a ripple. Behind them the rising sun streamed in between their shadows, casting a ghostly, kingly image. The heavy sound of clopping hooves was soon drenched in the reverberations up ahead.

It was the sound of tens of thousands of souls in harmony. Across nation, race, creed, sex, and birthright, these people had come. In what had become a war of survival, like never before, the land was united for one last time. They might have broken and fled. They might have fought amongst each other. They might have submitted, but the true strength of all the civilizations of the lands was interfused. If one link failed, so did they all. Even the trolls of the forest understood this, and were emerging and, in strange, hissing accents, offering their best for the fight to come.

Atop the hill, Valdar received his standard from the bearer and lifted it high. The Black Wolf fluttered. Below the horsemen, stretched out to the horizon was a city of tents, barricades, and stakes. Barded horses and knights shimmered in plate armor. Infantry performed mock battles in squares. New recruits and draftees were getting used to the weight of a sword in their hand for the first time, as well as the leather and chain they were given. Men began to look up and notice them.

"Let's go." Valdar said. The horsemen descended into the camp. At his side rode Osra, garbed in her plain leather armor, with a pink scarf gifted to her by a farmer's wife however. Cyrus, in his white Excubitor robe was behind him, and to his left in shoddy armor was his friend through thick and thin, Thorek Ghent. Ghent was the only person that Valdar had known personally from the beginning to the present of the war.

As they approached, men broke their formations and came running out from the camp. A crowd of dozens grew to hundreds in seconds. They weren't his Dogs, for they were still pulling up in the rear from the battle at Strom the past week. These were the men whom had fought with them instead; those of the regular army whom had survived the Plague, the terrible winter, the Spring retreats and rally's, and come to this place. They had fought alongside the Dogs of War and come to respect them.

"BLACK WOLF! BLACK WOLF!" A cheer went up. They had become heroes. Valdar wasn't sure when it happened, and he didn't like it, but he couldn't stop it. He slowly lifted a hand and the crowd erupted in elation, raising their weapons and screaming their throats raw.

Though the Armies and the Generals had been indifferent and even hostile to them at the beginning, after proving themselves, the Dogs of War had become almost like the heart of the Alliance's offensive. They were the ones whom had freed Strom. They held the lines at Thoradin's Wall. They pushed the enemy back at the Thandol Span.

The crowd continued to cheer as he smiled and slowly nudged his horse through it. He felt a swelling in his heart. They believed in him, just as he believed in them. The guilt of leading so many to their deaths still haunted him, but it brought him solace in that they trusted his judgment. The sheer guts and instinct he'd been going on since the beginning had proven right. The wise and mysterious Cyrus had called him a natural leader.

Before long, he was caught up in the high, waving, reaching down to grasp hands and pat men on the shoulder. This was probably going to be the last big fight; they knew it as well as he did. There was a feeling going through the camps, nay, through the whole land. After this, if they won…no, things could never return to the way they were. If they won, they would gain respite, if only for a while. The enemy would return eventually, but they would gain the time to mend and grow strong again. Then perhaps they could reclaim the past…

He heard Osra and Ghent yelling at the top of their lungs. "Make way! Make way!" They were pushing the soldiers out the way, opening up a highway for him to pass through to the command tent. Nodding to them, he continued past the throngs of soldiers who cheered and saluted him as he went past.

Up ahead he spotted the crimson command tent, which had served as the focal meeting point for the generals of the Alliance ever since he'd met them. Dismounting, he tied his horse to the post and passed through the flaps of the tent. Inside stood a quorum of the most powerful men in all of Lordaeron at the moment.

The arrogant Penwright stood in center, trying to absorb the attention of the rest of the officers. Next to him as a man Valdar didn't recognize. He had a long, fluffy handlebar mustache and wore black and gold armor. Wise Alain Serath nodded to Valdar as he entered. Thorr Steelhewer stood detached from the group, the usual gauntness and glum in his face seemingly gone in the face of the offensive.

Galen Trollbane, young, inexperienced, and eager, walked in behind Valdar. He was in control of what little Stromgarde had left in the Combined Armies. To the right, General Marcus Jonathan from Stormwind stood, tracing lines on the maps. His Azerothians were fresh and untouched. Their numbers alone had doubled the Combined Armies. At the head of the table was Magni Bronzebeard, the lone monarch. Surrounding him were a small, but elite guard of dwarves. He was brought to visible height by a large, portable throne cast in iron and gold.

"Valdar, you make a lot of noise." Anduin Praeton spoke, approaching the newcomers.

"Brigadier General, good to see you are still alive." Valdar clapped them man on the shoulder.

"It's full Lord General now. I was assigned to the Stormwind units." Anduin looked pleased to be back with his countrymen, though somewhat fidgety. Perhaps he thought the Azerothians weren't ready?

"Congratulations. Who is the man by Penwright?" Valdar asked as the ebon and gold plated man began to make huge gesturing motions.

"That would be Grand Marshal Garithos. He's finally decided to help us out."

"Ah, Garithos, hm? So he survived this long." Valdar noted the man's red faced demeanor. He looked like he was trying to control everything himself. He'd heard of the Marshal's intense racism and prejudices and hoped that they wouldn't hamper his ability to command. He'd even heard once that Garithos had left a band of high elves to hold a bridge while he set up his forces almost a mile behind them. Undermanned, under equipped, and left to the suicidal, the elves held as long as they could before falling back. The stories made it seem that Garithos was unhappy his elven allies had survived the encounter.

On the subject of elves, a tall, slender, and exceedingly handsome figure stood alone at the far side of the table. He was wrapped in a shiny black cloak, and wore blood red armor, with even redder chain links below it. Blonde hair tumbled from his head and cushioned his soft features. Two long ears protruded from the hair, sticking out into the air like antennae. His eyebrows were furrowed, and he seemed to be absorbed in an intense sadness, a perpetual mourning. An indescribable anger, loneliness, and hunger seemed to emanate from him.

"Who is that, Anduin?" Valdar asked, waving a hand toward the elf in the corner.

"Ah, that is Prince Kael'thas of Quel'thalas. He is the last of the Sunstrider dynasty, and I suppose the overdue king of the elves. Or what's left of them." Praeton replied. Valdar nodded, after taking in the elf's image for a long moment. He could sense a foreboding air around him, as if the future was beckoning to him.

"Archmage Belinda will be arriving shortly with her Kirin Tor allies." Praeton continued.

In the back, a man rested in a cot. The color was drained out of his face, and what wasn't beneath the rotting blanket that covered him was wrapped in dirty, bloody bandages. It took Valdar a moment to realize the identity of the man whom he'd once looked up to as a shining, valiant, bastion of might and strength; Tallheart…

Valdar made his way over to the man. He had been told that Newt Tallheart had survived, though wounded. He hadn't expected it to be this bad. It seemed like both the man's legs were missing. As he turned his head to face Valdar, another round of injuries came into view. He was wearing a bloody swathe of bandages around his left eye, his cheek had been cut through so that as he attempted to smile liquid, either blood and pus began to ooze out the wound. The man's lower lip's left half had been burned off in a still fresh scar that stretched all the way to his ear. He was in no shape to be at a meeting.

"Sire, you shouldn't be here." Valdar said softly, trying not to gather any attention.

"Hah…" Tallheart chuckled, followed by a cough and wince. "I shouldn't? I've lead us this far…I will at least help plan the final assault." A nurse rushed over to him, urging him quietly to calm down. "Off me you wretch!" he pushed the nurse away.

"I am glad you are alive, but—" Valdar tried to reason.

"Listen boy. You live one life. I say you live it the way you want to. That's what I'm doing. Crippled, beaten, and even humiliated, I won't stop." He smiled a bloody smile. "I might die soon, but it'll be after that moment…that final, glorious moment when I see our men rush into that city-raise the banners, and win the fight."

He wouldn't convince him. Smiling, Valdar kneeled before Tallheart, putting them at eye level. "I will still follow any order you give, sir."

"Go stand at that table. Tell them what I would. I see me in you, boy. A younger me when the world was full of possibilities. I don't have the voice to argue with these men, but I'll be here."

Nodding, Valdar stood and turned toward the table. On it was a map of the present area. The great Alterac Mountains reached up into the sky along the entire eastern borders of Dalaran as the great plain of the Casted Vale.

"…the undead's necromancers will certainly attempt to raise the thousands of slain on the former battlefield here. It could be disastrous, as they have recently been sighted creating skeletal mages." A brigadier general, signified as such by the red chevron on his tabard, announced. A murmur went through the crowd.

"I say we take these bastards on head first! If we attack now, before they can perfect such an abomination, we can claim the Casted Vale and bottle them in the city." Garithos spoke in a loud voice, waving his hands about in a dramatic, motioned manner.

"Fool. The demons would dissolve any force with sheer force of fear before we reached the city! We must preach caution here." Penwright stood up and waggled his finger in front of Garithos. The two men seemed like they were about to come to blows as a bright flash of white light momentarily stunned the group. A hole in the air ripped open and an image of a shadowy forest from the other side came through.

_Why must these mages make their entrance so melodramatic? _

Archmage Belinda flanked by two colleagues emerged from the portal. "Gentlemen, may I introduce my two comrades: Archmages Ansirem Runeweaver and Rhonin. We are the surviving members of the ruling Six, those whom governed. We speak for the Kirin Tor, and all the nation of Dalaran."

Belinda seemed as snobbish as ever, and this Runeweaver seemed to think that his own excrement didn't smell just by the way that we looked around the room in contempt. However, Rhonin scanned the room quickly with deeply intelligent, darting eyes. Behind them Valdar could see wisdom and experience. Valdar had heard of Rhonin's exploits in the Second War. He'd almost single handedly taken down the orcish holdout of Grim Batol, and since, had become one of the leading magicians in the world. Even some elves had become jealous of his expertise.

Amidst all these players and movers of the world, Valdar felt something in his gut. Was it tension? Anxiety for the coming battle? No…it was _excitement. _He took his place at the table.

"Gentlemen and gentlewomen, to order! We have all assembled!" Marcus Jonathan cried out. "We must now set about to planning the order of battle. Before this great host lies the Violet Citadel. We have been brought here by fate and the Light for this glorious battle. If we claim victory in this battlefield, we will have stalled the Scourge and the Legion's invasion southward. Lose, and we might lose our last remnants of Lordaeron; Hillsbrad, Silverpine, and Stromgarde. Even Gilneas will not stand long against the full might of the enemy. From Kul Tiras we have Lord Admiral Marus. With him are 3,000 Tirassian marines. The best of the best. I need not preach the subject on how this battle will shape history.

Stormwind has sallied forth with 50,000 men. With us are the Combined Alliance Armies, numbering approximately 30 and a half thousands. The great king of Dun Modr, Magni Bronzebeard, has provided and led here 5,000 of his greatest dwarven axes. Grand Marshal Garithos has also pledged his army to our cause. He brings with him 15,000 swords and spear, as well as 3,000 lance. The most honorable Prince Kael'thas has pledged his entire support to us as well. What have you brought us, Archmages of Dalaran?"

Belinda, Rhonin, and Runeweaver stepped forward. "With us we bring the might of Dalaran. Two hundred mages and two thousand footmen, as well as 500 lance. They march from our rallying points in Silverpine and the Alterac Mountains."

"Very good. Added with our allies, the forest troll tribes of Yellowspear and Skinmask, as well as the Knights of the Silver Hand, the Knights of the Scarlet Order, as well as numerous other organizations, we have combined under this council's might, a force of more than 115,000. This is the greatest army in our day. No other since Blackrock Spire, and Arathor, has ever been seen.

"It has been decided that Stormwind shall bear the frontal assault on the Casted Vale. From the mountain base we shall have the Combined Armies assault the right. They shall take a salient in the city and hold the undead reinforcements that are steaming from Alterac and Silverpine. Garithos, you are to feint towards the left, and then join the main Stormwind assault.

Dalaran, we shall need your mages mixed in with our troops. You will keep a reserve of 20 with you for larger spells. Make sure you rotate your wizards so that they do not get tired too quickly, or use up too much mana in their axial draining zones.

The rest of you know your jobs already.

Once Dalaran is taken, we are to search out and destroy the leaders of the Scourge and Legion here. That is the job of the mages. Our troops will protect them. After that is complete, we will set up sweeping teams to clear the entire area of undead or demon reinforcements.

Light willing, there will be nothing too big for us to handle. If the case comes for a retreat, Stormwind will hold the line. All else will fall back behind it and proceed to Stromgarde with all haste.

We march in the name of the Light, in the name of justice, and all that is held dear. We will never be stronger than we are now. On our side is all that is right, all that is proper, and all that this world represents. Together, as a conglomeration of species, but as of one soul, we will vanquish the Scourge. We will be victorious."

Ashenvale Forest, at a secluded vale…

Silver moonlight streamed through the forest canopy and glinted off the glade's foamy creeks and rivers. The sound of moving water and rustling plants filled the air around the two.

This was what Ashenvale was meant to be, not the ruinous shell of destruction that had become the Felwood. Furion looked around. The raven, whatever it was, had not arrived yet.

Furion felt serene, though he knew bodies were approaching. Perhaps the raven? No…they were different, and approaching fast.

"We haven't the time for this Furion! What are we doing out here? We must return to the front." Tyrande was impatient. Though she had been alive for more than 10,000 years, she had never learned the value of patience. It was her greatest flaw, but made her all the more beautiful, especially on a day like this.

Furion shook such thoughts away and set his mind back to the task at hand. "Last night in a dream, a great raven spoke to me in a dream and beckoned me to this place."

Two beings moved through the forest and into the clearing. As they approached, Furion felt not sense of aggression in them. One was a pinkskin outlander, robed in long purple cloth that bore golden runes on its exterior. Blonde hair tumbled from beneath her hood, cushioning a soft, almost innocent face. The outlander looked around inquisitively with strange, green eyes.

The other had the look of a killer on him, albeit a wise, learned, and well traveled killer. In his hand was a massive black mauler, and strapped to his body was onyx, silver, and gold armor that clinked and jingled as he moved. He was tall, muscular, and sweaty. Furion noticed that unlike the others of his race, this orc had blue eyes. How peculiar.

They made no gesture to attack, unlike Tyrande whose face bore a scowl at their very presence and who readied in a battle stance immediately.

"They seem to have been summoned here as well." The tall greenskin outlander spoke in his rough tones. He seemed to be speaking in the other, pinkskin outlander tongue, though with little difficulty. The spirits of nature conveyed the outlanders language through Furion's mind easily enough, deciphering and decoding their grunts into words. He could easily reconstruct the sentence structure and syntax, allowing him to respond in ways they could clearly understand.

"Who are you, outlanders? Why do you invade and pillage our forests? It was the undead that followed you here, and you who slew Cenarius." Furion asked. The two looked at each other for a moment, surprised at the communicative ability of the elf.

"I am Thrall, son of Durotan, Warchief of the Horde." The armored brute spoke, puffing his chest.

"And I am Jaina Proudmoore. Leader of the human survivors of Lordaeron." This one was more timid, though Furion could sense an intimate nature within her, one which inspired others.

"You are not welcome here." Tyrande hissed. Her saber crouched, ready to pounce.

"I am arch-druid Malfurion Stormrage. You have much to answer for, outlanders."

"We apologize for the loss of life in your lands, and the death of your—demigod." Thrall said.

"There was no choice. We were chased from our homeland to these distant, hostile places, and even here we find no respite—no hospitality." The Proudmoore girl continued.

"It matters not! Your crimes cannot be forgiven so lightly!" Tyrande strung her bow in the blink of an eye.

In a green flash, before the turn of events could become even more somber, a figure stood in the path of Tyrande's bow with a hand drawn out to cover the arrowhead.

"Peace Priestess. They have come to aid you against the Legion."

"So you arrive, Prophet." Thrall spoke in familiar tones.

"It was you in my dream…but who are you to make such an offer to us?" the arch-druid inquired.

The raven-prophet was silent for a long few seconds, as if taking in the air of the world one last time. He met the eyes of each of the leaders at the secret meeting, making a full circle before returning to the present. A slight gust of wind picked up, throwing leaves across his path.

"I am the reason for the Legion's return." He looked up, and suddenly Furion's, Tyrande's, Thrall's, and Jaina's minds were thrown into a dark abyss from which they could not struggle out.

"Years ago, I brought the orcs into this world, and by doing so I opened a path for the demons as well."_ A voice echoed in the minds of the four. An image rippled into existence from the blackness. _

_A slightly younger raven-prophet stood in the midst of a dank swamp. The smells of the fetid, rotting water and muck were as potent as the very vision of the swamp around them. Everything seemed completely authentic. _

_Waving his staff and chanting a series of words, rock and obsidian tore from the ground and contorting in midair to establish a gateway. Time passed quickly, as the sun and moons rose and fell, the trees swayed quickly back and forth, and the gate completed itself. With a flash, another world, a red world, appeared on the other side of the gateway. The younger prophet left in the blink of an eye, and what seemed like several days later, the greenskin beings began to come through the portal, at first cautions, then inquisitive, and then hungry for more than one thing. _

_The world panned from the gateway to the sky. Lightning and static electricity seemed to rip apart the sky as if it were feeble flesh and bone. When the image panned downward again, the waters of the swamp had boiled away, the foliage was dying quickly, and hundreds, no thousands of orcs were marching out of the portal. They brought with them beasts of burden and war, horns, weapons, and entire populations of their kind. _

"For my sins I was murdered by those whom I cared for most_." Now the Prophet was in a great chamber. Rushing at him were metal-clad pinkskins, who were blown away by his formidable power. Even another wizard, this one old, as old as the Prophet now, could not seem to match him. He screamed something incomprehensible. _

_The Prophet sank to his knees, grasping his hair and head, shaking it like a madman. His pain was tangible. One massive pinkskin, his face hidden by a visor, raised a huge broadsword almost as tall as himself, tossed it, impaling the Prophet. He slowly walked over to the Prophet's dying body, and took off his helm. His face was hidden in shadow, though the dying word of the Prophet was heard echoing through the chamber like it was light in a candle-less tunnel. "Lothar...sorry." The large pinkskin began to slowly seize, as if crying._

"Despite my death, war raged across the lands of the East for many long years, leaving entire kingdoms devastated in its wake." _One man was shown being slain by an assassin she-orc, stabbed in the back. Orcs and humans fought each other across innumerable battlefields, from great bridges to swamps, to castle keeps, volcanic rock, snowy plains, forests, and even the seas. The forests burned, the oceans raged, a great citadel fell into flame and ruin, and the fighting expanded._

_Now elves that somewhat resembled the night elves joined the fight with the humans, alongside a diminutive race that somewhat resembled the ancient earthen that fought in the War of the Ancients. On the orcs side, trolls and large lumbering monsters with two heads began to fight. _

_The battles took to the skies as dragons were enslaved and dwarves fought with gryphons. Later, a human was hung, jeered by his peers for betrayal. A titanic battle between the one who slew the Prophet and one wearing the same armor and bearing the same weapon as Thrall exploded across a battlefield where strewn were the bodies of tens of thousands of dead and dying. _

The images subsided and the blackness receded like a low tide until the four were simply standing where they had been before, with the Prophet in the middle of their group.

"Now, at long last, I have returned to set things right. I am Medievh, the last Guardian. I tell you now, the only chance for this world is to unite in arms against the enemies of all who live." The Prophet said in desperate speech.

All but Jaina remained where they stood, utterly shocked by the images that had just been jammed into their minds. Thrall seemed to recognize the name. The young sorceress stuttered forward; one step, then two, and another, as if in a trance.

"I knew…there was something about you…" she muttered as she staggered, unable to break eye contact.

Medievh turned to face her. "You are powerful, young one. You have in you a strength you never realized until you undertook this journey."

"It was because of you—" Jaina stammered.

"I merely gave you a nudge in the right direction. That applies to all of you. I will set the course for rightness. I will do my duty this one last time." Medivh closed his eyes.

"Who are you, Medievh? Or what are you?" Tyrande asked.

"He is the greatest—the last Guardian. He was entrusted with all the knowledge of wizardry we gathered over the thousands of years. The Guardians were supposed to watch over mortals; to shepard and protect them. I had heard the rumors of what happened to Medievh…but Lothar told no one of what happened. He took the truth to his grave. Him and Khadgar, wherever he may be now." Jaina explained.

"And how would you have us destroy Archimonde, wizard? How is it we defeat the Legion?" Furion inquired. "You change the course of history so subtly yet cannot directly interfere?! Is that it?"

"Indeed. I leave such acts to you, else I disturb the world more than I have. Time is short, warriors of the Eastern Kingdoms, Kalimdor, and Draenor, for if you do not act soon, you all risk losing your worlds again. Do not waste the opportunity I have provided. May your Gods and faiths be with you. I shall watch as I have, wishing you the best of luck." Medievh turned, and began to walk away.

Jaina stood up and began to run after him. "I have so many question—" As abruptly as the Prophet had arrived, he disappeared in the signature flash of light.

"And so we come to this." Furion said. All eyes turned to him. The arch-druid's head hung low, deep in thought.

"Standing alone, we will be crushed. Together, we might amount to something…no, together we will still be crushed, but we have a chance."

"No, Malfurion. There must be another way." Tyrande said desperately. She knew of what he spoke.

"Silence! There is no other! We have but one chance. This was preordained long ago…if you would have it, warriors, join with me and fight this last fight. Let us join arms." He walked over to a rock that struck up above a nearby patch of grass. He slammed his cane down on it and waited.

"The Horde will bleed with you, druid." Thrall stepped forward, and placed the Doomhammer upon the rock.

"On behalf of the survivors of Lordaeron, I pledge our strength to yours. We have a common foe and a common agenda. I pray that in time we become allies." Jaina Proudmoore, robe flowing, gently placed her staff's end on the rock.

The three waited a moment for Tyrande to make her decision. She would be the most difficult to convince. After what seemed like an eternity to even Furion, the Priestess of the Moon stepped forward.

"Very well. The Sentinels stand with the humans, the Horde, and you my love. United we shall stand." Moonlight seemed to break over the group as Tyrande placed a symbolic arrow on the rock.

"There is only one way in which Archimonde may be truly, and utterly defeated at this point. Timing is essential, but if it is done right, and our trap ensnares him, then the Legion will be completely banished from this world. Let the children of the world rise up to defend her again!" Furion shouted out, righteous will flowing through him.

Outside the Casted Vale, Early Morning

Valdar turned away as the javelins flew towards the men pinned to the trees. Groans and screams were heard. The men slowly stopped struggling and went limp as the life passed out of their bodies. If any had found sleep this night, they were awakened now.

"These traitors were sentenced to death. These noblemen waged petty conflict against one another for selfish means when our King was murdered instead of banding together to fight a greater enemy. It was in part their fault that Lordaeron fell. Even this punishment is too good for them." The executioner prima explained to the crowd.

The attack was going to begin soon; when the sun rose fully. It would be hell incarnate…

"Valdar?" a vaguely familiar voice called out from the crowd. Valdar looked back. Osra emerged from the crowd, barely recognizable in the flickering shadows of the torches. She looked visibly nervous and pale. It seemed she had something she wanted to tell him.

"Come. Walk with me." Valdar and the woman soldier walked off in the opposite direction of the throngs of soldiers. They were on the edge of camp.

"You look like you have something to say."

"Well…" Osra averted her eyes for a moment. "I just wanted to say that before we fight here, that I respect you sir. I…I might even love you. I know the time isn't right, but I just wanted to say it before—what's about to happen—just in case I don't get to."

Valdar wasn't exactly surprised, but he still felt a bit taken aback. "That is insubordination. I won't tolerate such behavior in a time of war." The young woman's face looked like ice breaking in a harbor after winter for a fleeting moment before she gathered back up into her resolute self.

"I know, and I'm sorry for bringing it up. It's just, I've looked up to you since the day we met and... Forgive me. I just needed to say it."

"Osra, as a friend and a concerned commander, I am going to ask you a simple question." Valdar changed the subject, feeling uncomfortable. He hadn't even thought of love in a romantic notion since Ellena had passed. "Are you sure you want to fight today? I can tell you are not—in the best state of mind."

"Sir, I wouldn't stop today if it meant my life." She snapped back to attention.

"Do you know what its going to be like out there?"

"Aren't all these battles the same?"

"You've never seen anything like what's about to happen. Only the old veterans from Blackrock have. We're going to march out there in those beautiful, filed lines like complete idiots. We will be torn to shreds by arrow-fire, magic, and infernals tumbling from the sky. A third of us will be dead by the time we even reach the city limits.

It won't end there. When we do reach the city, we'll have to fight block for block. The undead will be bolstered by our dead. They'll be waiting on every street corner. Even if we do take the city, the entire Scourge will counter attack. We'll have to hold the ruins. More than half of us will be gone by then. If all goes according to plan and it never does."

"Why are you staying if this is so suicidal sir?"

Valdar was quiet for a moment. "It must be done."

"How can I back from this cause we have fought for so long. It must be done." Osra said, a smile breaking the glum on her face. For a moment, Valdar thought he saw Ellena. Osra turned and began to walk away. She paused and looked back at him.

"Once you asked me why we keep going on, even as the world falls apart around us. I didn't have an answer for you then. I do now: I do it to see a better tomorrow. Things might be better in the morning, when the storms pass. Do you have an answer?"

"Because I have not had my revenge. I'll destroy this hell, even if I have to kill the devil and take his place." He said firmly.

"I don't think you really believe that." She said, then turned and disappeared into the crowds.

_Take care of yourself, _Valdar thought.

"Valdar ye bastard! Where are ya?" the knight could hear Thorek Ghent's voice shouting at the top of his lungs. "Get o'er here!"

"I'm here Thorek." Valdar called out, raising his hand. His friend came tripping forward from a group of men-at-arms, panting.

"What? Did you find the Light?" Valdar asked sarcastically.

"Are ya' daft? You're gonna have tae' see this! Come! Quickly!" Suddenly, the troops whom were standing around talking or sitting by camp fires started whispering to each other, got up, and began to run towards the same general direction.

"What is it? What's happening?"

"Paladins!" Ghent exclaimed. The two rushed with the giddy crowd. Before long, they came into site: several dozen paladins on barded steeds. The sunlight seemed brighter around them as they passed by in single file.

Their leader was a huge man with red hair that fell to his shoulders. He wore scarlet armor and carried a massive, pulsating blade. In its center

"Is that what I think it is, Ghent?" Valdar asked.

"Aye…it's the _Ashbringer._ He's here to battle with us."

There had been tales of Alexandros Mograine from the most inhospitable, behind-enemy-lines, north. They echoed across Lordaeron, mixing in with the great events like Darrowshire and the battle at the Thandol Span. His deeds had been legendary. It was said that simply by being his presence, undead would crumble and turn to ash. Mograine was said to be the unofficial successor of Uther the Lightbringer. All the men began to fall to their knees.

Valdar stood his ground, but held out a crisp salute. Mograine noticed and returned the salute before moving on. Valdar smirked. He'd caught the man's attention by sticking out. That would come in handy later today most likely. Standing against a tree on the other side of the paladins was Cyrus. He stood, looked Valdar in the eyes, and pointed towards a secluded location by a large rock.

The two had matters to settle before Dalaran…

Ashenvale

Archimonde the Defiler stood as legions of undead and demons marched past and around him. Of all the processions and ragnarok's he had seen, this one would be the most glorious…

The site of the Legion's only defeat in its long history would finally be drained of its life, and the past would be rectified. He would be able to return to the Nether, and with the strength of Nordrassil, challenge Kil'jaeden, finally breaking the folly Triumvirate that had reigned for these millennia.

With Kil'jaeden out of the picture, nothing would stand in his way. The eredar overlord would rule as Sargeras did, and remake the Legion to his own image. He would be the one to truly wipe out the universe and return it to the inherent chaos and nothingness that it deserved.

Haures wanted his own version of the Titan's creation, and Kil'jaeden wanted to remake the universe…he however, the truest disciple of Sargeras, would utterly desolate it. That image, of pure blackness, was delightful.

In the end, he would find the Titans whom had run so long, and destroy them all. It would all begin here…atop this mountain…the return to normalcy. Then, he would be greater than Sargeras. He would be greater than everything.

He looked up to behold the greatest tree this world had ever known: Nordrassil, the World Tree, far off in the distance. The moon was setting and the sun rising. The final battle would soon come.

Alliance Base Camp Outskirts, Dawn

"You have been chosen, for some reason or another, by fate to be the one to wield the sword of Dragias." Cyrus spoke.

"I know. I have to slay Haures, and, oh, I will." The warrior patted the sword that hung at his hip.

"I know this is not what you wanted to hear, but even with that blade I believe it impossible to fully slay Haures." Cyrus admitted.

"What!? Then what's the damn point of this thing? Why do I have to wield it? How am I supposed to kill that son of a bitch!" Valdar spat, anger filling his eyes. "What have we been doing here?" Valdar exploded.

"Though that sword will cut and destroy his mortal avatar's frame and even negate his abilities, it is impossible for us to slay such a being's soul. It would return directly to the Twisting Nether with the rest of the Legion."

"That's not good enough! He needs to be utterly destroyed!"

"True." Cyrus agreed.

"I was told once, by Dragias, that that did not matter."

"Stop your word-play and speak, elf."

Cyrus bent down and slowly reached out towards the sword. He so desperately wanted the power in his own hands…its strength would be realized with his own knowledge of the arcane…but…

He pulled back, knowing it was useless. Though he knew little about Dragias' blade, it was evident that only a select few could handle it. He was not one of them. He wondered if the Excubitor leader was laughing at him in the next life.

"There is a way in which the destruction of Haures' body will cause his death. Dragias knew as much, and knowingly or not, taught it to me during my time in his tutelage."

"Then how is it that we kill a God?"

Cyrus looked at Valdar with the eyes of a god-killer.

The Casted Vale, Daybreak

Alexandros Mograine slowly placed his horned helm atop the fiery hair of his head. As the nose-piece came down across his vision, he felt the fury of the Light boiling within him.

Behind him stood a force tens of thousands strong whom had come from all walks of life. Their faith too was strong. This battle would be remembered by future generations and written down in their books.

For Alexandros, this was a holy war; a crusade, one drenched red with the blood of all those whose lives were taken. Looking back, he could see nothing but a wall of flags, spears, and armor.

The paladin's eyes began to glow with holy fire. In his hand, the Ashbringer pulsed with the lust for the ashes of the undead.

It was time.

The battle was about to begin. A single bugle rang in the air, echoing for miles.

"For Lordaeron, the grateful dead, and the LIIIIIIIIGHT!" he shouted out, charging forward. His paladins followed, and behind them, the endless thunder of the living.

(Author's note: Thanks for the reviews lately. Summer's here and the tests are over, so I expect to have more time to write now, at least until I get back to my job. Other than that, stick in! This is the climax of the story right here! Read, review, and enjoy! I'll see you all soon.

Omegatrooper)


	42. Chapter 41: Tempest

**Chapter 41: Tempest**

Dalaran Ruins

The arch-lich Kel'thuzad looked out over the Casted Vale past the ruins as the orders of battle were drawn up. The great Violet Citadel which had stood for centuries was a pile of rubble and ash.

The same fate had come upon the kingdoms of man and elf as had that citadel. Yet somehow, still, they had the strength to resist at least this one last time. Kel'thuzad admitted finally to himself that the will to live was powerful. He admired it. Yet the lich knew that as strong as the basest of instincts were, they were simply unable to defy the one, single aspect of the world; death.

Everything must die with time.

Kel'thuzad held up his bony arm; the humorous, phalanges, metacarpus, ulna, radius, scapula, clavicle all showed. Pulses of blue energy ran through them like blood from a heartbeat. He saw in the image truth. Pure truth. The Lich King had granted him the strength and wisdom that he never would have achieved here within the halls of Dalaran.

The world was darker now. But even with all the deaths he had seen, all the horrors, the utter desecrations of sanctity and life, he felt numb inside, and had for a long time. Few things mattered in this world. Long had he given up on the petty matters of love, community, honor…

However something tinged inside that he hadn't felt in a long time. Something was disturbing the comfortable numbness. What was it?

Flags; there were many flags, but they all stood for nothing in the end. Bodies; there were many bodies. Tens of thousands had appeared in the distance. They were like a great silver and brown and black belt that girded the horizon.

Machines of war appeared from their lines. With his enhanced vision, the lich could see the faces of those in the front-most lines, even though they stood miles away. They were surprisingly resolute.

The itching emotion continued to grow.

Below Kel'thuzad the ground shook. The rubble began to rumble and dust clouds began to rise simply from their passing; the Scourge. It was assembled.

Tens, no hundreds of thousands of risen undead gathered from all Lordaeron passed below Kel'thuzad. Walls of skeletons and ghouls emerged from the ruins of Dalaran. Towering over them were abominations, stitched horrors brought together by the Scourge's mad science. Above even them were the Burning Legion's doom guard.

In a blast of wind, the doom guard, led by a Legion lord named Kazzak, took to the sky, flying into the cloudless sky. Joining them were the gargoyles and newly hatched flying obsidian monsters.

The two armies stood opposed. The undead Scourge and its unholy alliance with the Burning Legion stood ironically in its bastion of power; the once great Dalaran. The great lord Haures had applied the artificial Ley-lines to work, opening a series of demon gates which allowed the Legion unlimited reinforcements.

The notion was unsettling though. The Legion was not on the Scourge's side. More demons would not help when the—'plan', went into effect.

Ballistae arrows and catapult rounds began to rain down around him and the Scourge. One embedded itself into a stone but four feet from him.

"My enemies are surprisingly good shots." He quipped.

Kel'thuzad began to conjure with all his might a great storm, the likes of which had never been seen by living eyes. Aided by the almost unlimited magical energy of the artificial Ley-lines, the sky began to darken instantly. Lightning, then hail and snow began to appear within minutes. To the east of a Dalaran several wall clouds appeared as rapid updrafts mixed with quickly descending cold air.

The stones around him, even the ones that weighted tons, began to float in the air. Dust was kicked up all around the city creating a huge dome of swirling dirt, sand, and debris.

Tornadoes began to descend, and as they did Legion eredar began to apply fire spells to them, creating massive spiraling infernos that burned through everything in their path. Of course he couldn't keep this up for long, as the Legion would begin to confiscate his Ley-lines to open more demon portals, though he would do what he could with what he had in the time he had it.

This would hold off the Alliance for a while. Even though they had had time to regroup, the Scourge was still greatly damaged from its battles in Stromgarde and nearly all of the Legion's force was destroyed in the blast by the mage Dragias. Replacements were still coming through the Gates.

Then, Kel'thuzad realized what the emotion that was coming over him was; fear, mixed with excitement. The army in front of him was unlike anything he had ever seen. It was fearsome, resilient, and most of all, willing to die for a cause. Kel'thuzad felt more alive than he had in years.

Alliance Rearguard

Loki Helvenhand brought his axe to its normal resting stance across his chest. Beside him were the warriors of King Magni. At their head was Magni himself. The blocks of dwarven warriors were girded in their best armor; gold's, silvers, platinum', gems and precious stones, intricately carved runes and text, complex and unique motifs on each piece of armor for each warrior.

It was truly a scene from the Murals of Ironforge. Though they were in the back of the line, they would be called up soon enough. Beer had been spilt, even that morning. Ale from Loch Modan, rum from Dun Modr, and Stormstriker mead from Anvilmar had been in quantity, and the dwarves had drank their morning's thirst as the humans looked on in awe at the strange festivities of a dwarven pre-battle.

Laughing, Loki clapped the shoulder of the two dwarves next to him. One was a newly ordained priest of the Light, Belgarlan, thrust into battle to heal the wounded, and another was Nedda Nilfheim, a female warrior he'd only acquainted with that morning.

"This'ere 'll be a fine one, eh?" He rasped.

"Aye." Nedda replied.

Belgarlan fell to his knees and began a prayer. "In o' the Light I commend these souls to thee. Watch and keep em' safe damnit. The fools will need it."

Loki burst into laughter. It was either that or cry, and he wasn't going to stake his pride was an adult dwarf warrior in the midst of his kin doing so. As his laughter subsided the sounds of the growing battle ahead of them picked up.

Suddenly, all was sober.

A human army was lined up at their flank. It was apparently the much talked about Dogs of War 'unofficial' troop. The humans liked their heroes, though Loki couldn't tell the difference really. It was all just one big joke.

Just then though, a whistle blew and the humans to their right began to about face and march off into the mountains in the direct opposite direction of the fight. Loki felt the pressure suddenly build, and dozens of dwarves began to call out in confusion. The Dogs of War were turning, breaking up, and heading towards the mountains.

Loki jeered. The humans were running away. The jeer picked up.

"The yellow bellied sons a' bitches are actually runnin'!" He called out.

"Stand your ground 'ya ga-luts!" A cry from the officers echoed out. "We'll advance as scheduled!"

Some of the humans seemed to be grasping huge logs and planks of wood. Others were carrying en masse massive structures. Loki could only describe them as weapons of war, and the damn humans were running away with them! He felt like getting in there and killing them himself!

"Prepare yar'selves boys!" The officer nearest the front yelled. The regiments and battalions in front of the dwarves began to march forward into the battle. The sounds of fighting were growing ever louder. They were about to march forward. Explosions and magical zaps were making the air electric. The mere sound must have scared off the cowards. Very well, they would do without.

"**Khah zhahe dar kehz!" **The dwarvish cry for charge picked up. The lines of mountain warriors began to pick up speed, moving at a double march forward.

Before Loki lost sight of the running humans, he saw two humans on horseback. One's face bore a scar across the eye. A staff officer held a sewn together flag that had a black wolf on it.

The one with the scar smiled.

The Casted Vale, Mage Detachment

Archmage Belinda watched as the Alliance's front lines moved forward. It was a powerful scene: 20,000 soldiers charging forward at the same time. Few had ever seen such a powerful spectacle.

However, something that interested her much more was the sky. From nowhere a great storm had been conjured. She knew who was behind it. In the scrying her and her mages had done beforehand, it was evident that Kel'thuzad, once an esteemed member of the highest echelons of Dalaran's ruling class, was faced off against them.

He was amongst the ruins that had so long housed the greatest libraries of knowledge and minds of the ages, and laboratories of inventors amongst so many other things.

The man had long since given up his humanity, opting for the false immortality of the Lich King. However, Belinda could not deny his power, both in the past and present. Dalaran had been humiliated when the truth had come out that Kel'thuzad was one of the leaders of the Scourge. She would not let such an insult to their integrity stand. Just the thought of him out there, further trampling on the name of the Kirin Tor almost drove her to insane anger.

The archmage clenched her fists. "Rhonin, get yourself ready!" she called out. The Dalaran footmen around the two mages turned.

"We haven't gotten orders to advance yet. We can't move forward until General Marcus calls on us. We're the reserve."

The Generals had assigned Dalaran's small troop formations to the reserve and pulled away nearly 180 of the mages she'd managed to gather over the past few months, leaving her with 20 of her own to 'do with what she saw fit'. Ridiculous. They were her forces, her mages. They were Dalaran's mages…and they would simply rip apart their company to provide menial support to advancing troops rather than using the true power of so many casters to create a single, unstoppable spell.

They had argued about the risk involved, the attraction of the demons to magic, of the need to close magic support, and a million other things. On top of that, they had the gall to place Dalaran's own troops in the back. It was their city! Regardless of the losses they should have the right to be in the frontline trying to take it back!

"Kel'thuzad is up there. We're going to end him, and take back our city!" Belinda shouted out. Rhonin looked more concerned than vengeful. That was annoying.

"If you want, stay here and soak with the rest, Rhonin! I'm going to kill that damn traitor." Belinda said stalwartly.

The Dalarani troops raised their swords and shields, crying out battle oaths. It began to hail. The sound of the ice balls against armor was like hitting pans together. Lightning lit up the battlefield for split seconds.

Belinda kicked at the sides of her mount. The horse bolted forward. Behind her followed the strength of Dalaran. Rhonin stood aghast for a moment as the columns moved forward.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be according to the plan! This attack could jeopardize everything…or open up opportunities. He couldn't stop it now.

"Damn that hotheaded woman!" Rhonin spit. His red hair was matted against his back in the rain. He could either stay and further weaken Belinda's drive, or join her and do his best to make it succeed.

The mage rushed forward with Dalaran's hopes and future in mind.

Alliance Forward Command, Center Line

General Marcus Jonathan looked as his Stormwind troops rushed into the first line of Scourge defenses. The groups clashed amongst the outcropped ruins where last year the Stromgarde offensive had grinded to a halt.

The first hammer had fallen.

Arrows had been fired before the advance; tens of thousands of them, along with artillery shells which even now rained down destruction upon the rear lines of the enemy. Explosions and plumes of smoke and dust continued to appear and rise in the ruins of Dalaran. Due to the arrow-fire, the dirt ground now looked like it was bristling with reed and tall, wooden grass. The archers were repositioning right now as not to hit their own troop.

Nearly half his strength was advancing. It was glory incarnate. The sun had been blotted out by the great summoned storm clouds, but the cream of Stormwind's crop were still advancing, even in the darkness.

"Light save us…" someone near him voiced.

Bolts of lightning and magic flittered through the air. Dwarven steam tanks advanced in the center line, bashing down any rubble that the Scourge might have moved to slow the advance. Explosions from mortar teams, the sound of a hundred thousand speeding swords, scream of innocent and the damned, and an infinite more things echoed across the Casted Vale. Battle was joined.

As the two sides clashed, Marcus could literally see the lines ripple backwards on both sides with the force of the charge. The ground shook and the air was electric. Banners from a hundred cities were blowing in the gale, and people from a thousand places shouted their cries and oaths, either for reassurance or simply to expend the anxiety.

"Stormwind! Stormwind!"

The unholy cries of skeletal reanimations responded.

"Khah zhahe dar kehz!"

The traitor living yelled "For Scourge and Lich King!"

Songs were being sung; drums battered.

Metal on metal: mettle against mettle.

The Stormwind general spotted the Goldshire Regiment which he had raised personally surge into an enemy salient which had been dug out into trenches. As they cleared the breastworks behind that, a throng of abominations, dozens perhaps, met them. In instants they lost all semblance of order as a chaotic melee ensued. Body parts were tossed in the air as the unstoppable tidal wave of men swarmed past the fight.

Marcus for a split second believed in the images he saw that love, death, and justice were equally defined. In that moment he felt the true depth of the terror of war. It was not his first time on the battlefield, but he had never seen anything quite what was happening now…not even at Blackrock Spire.

This was an entirely different battle. Though the same enmity was in the hearts of the fighters, though intelligence drove the battle, there was something—baser—about the conflict.

Blackrock Spire had been an all out battle between the Alliance and the Horde. Though the concept of two great powers going at it was present at the time, there wasn't the same desperate urgency on the part of the Alliance. The fight was on Horde territory. Ever since the Horde's civil war, the Alliance had been able to match them.

Here it was all about mere survival. These men and women were fighting to stay alive against incredible odds. Sure they had thrown back the enemy in Stromgarde, but it was a temporary setback. Unlike the Horde, the Scourge was stronger every time they fought, even if they lost. Having the demons on their side was even worse as there was a veritable limitlessness to their numbers. There was also Haures…the arch demon.

No, these fights were not similar after all. Blackrock Spire was a necessary battle. This was a battle of continuance: to be utterly destroyed or not to be utterly destroyed. If Blackrock Spire had been lost, the Alliance had space to retreat and regroup, though the painful war might have gone on for years longer. The Horde also had forced what little survivors they left behind into slavery. The Scourge would allow no such luxury.

Many had said that Stormwind would not come, or that if they did, they wouldn't be ready. Right here that notion was being proven wrong, though the pain and scars that these Lordaerael carried ran deep. After all, it was they who had lost their king, land, and families. However, Marcus knew that if the battle could not be won here, there would be nothing to stop the Scourge from marching all the way south even to his beloved homeland of Stormwind. This was their last chance. Everything was hinging on the gamble of this battle. It _could not _be lost.

"General, the front regiments have met the enemy. General Steelhewer and the other Combined Armies leaders are asking permission to advance on the right flank of the enemy." A courier informed him.

"Not yet. Not yet…wait for it." Marcus said.

He watched as the battle unfolded from his raised hill. In the distance were the ruins of Dalaran. They were hazy in the precipitation. Spires of rock stuck up in the distance marking their target. Beyond it was the Averass river. The undead would be receiving reinforcements every second from over there.

On either side of the great plain that stood before Dalaran, the Casted Vale were two different mountain ranges, separated by those several square miles of grassland. That was where the action was unfolding right now.

The action was incredible and visceral.

The main body of the Alliance was to strike forward in a frontal assault against the undead as a holding action to draw the attention of the undead's reinforcements while the rest of the forces, mostly the survivors of Lordaeron, Stromgarde, and Quel'thalas' armies flanked to the right. But, the timing had to be absolutely perfect. If they attacked to early, the undead would be able to see them coming as the main body would not be able to sufficiently spread out enough to cover their flanking attack. If they attacked too late, the main body would be too broken up by the constant attacks of both the undead and demons. That, or Stormwind's untested troops which were assigned to the main body would falter with fear against the horrific machinations of the Scourge and Legion.

Only when everything was perfect could their secret weapon finally strike.

"General!" someone shouted out. It was Anduin Praeton, his brigadier general. He pointed to a small section of the battlefield where a copse of trees had slowed the advance of a Stormwind regiment. He could tell by its blue and gold flag. A huge undead flanking attack suddenly emerged from the nearby forest that led back to the Hillsbrad Foothills. Another courier, this one on horseback, came up through the small walkways between the blocks of troops.

"The sons of bitches flanked us! They're going to be at our rear in minutes!" he screamed.

"Have Dalaran's forces cover our rear so we can buy some time to reposition." The general commanded.

"Sire, I don't think that they're going to comply with that order." Anduin mumbled, pointing towards a new offensive on the battlefield. Divisions of soldiers were moving without his control—they were Dalarani! He could see the purple eye on its golden background. Things were falling apart already. Damn! He couldn't lose control of the battle…he just couldn't! If that happened…

"Anduin, you know what needs to be done here." Marcus Jonathan clapped his aide on the shoulder. The man was inexperienced at full command, but capable.

"Sir—what are—"

"Saving this battle." Marcus replied. As lightning lit up the sky, he turned his back to the assault and towards the undead's counter attack. "I'm going to need the Keep Guard. We will stop them before they reach the main force."

In battle things had to be done quickly. Taking the Keep Guard, Stormwind's greatest troops whom were legendary in battle, he would personally hold off the Scourge's flanking attack. Those men had never surrendered during the First and Second War.

After Stormwind Keep fell, most of them refused to leave their fatherland, opting to recover and protect Stormwind's royal jewels and crown. They fought and led a guerrilla battle for years before the Alliance returned to liberate Azeroth. The few that did depart with Lothar served as his personal guard throughout all the major battles of the Second War.

They would hold. With those men, he had to hold. It all had to be—perfect.

Frontline, Casted Vale

Jorad Mace twisted to the side in order to avoid being hit by the claws of a dreadlord. He bumped into a footman in the close quarters, but used the unexpected boost to his advantage, pushing off of the soldier to dash forward.

The dreadlord swiped at Jorad's head with his nine inch claws. Jorad ducked just in time as the claws ripped off his helm and left a gushing gash across his forehead. He ran forward, dodging left and then to the right, blinking through the blood. His muscles, filled with the rapture of the Light, all moved in conjunction. The timing was perfect.

He dove between the dreadlord's legs, emerged from the other side, skidding on his knees. His weapon, a great blunted mace, had already been charged with holy power, glowed bright orange. Releasing his Seal of the Martyr which he had drawn in blood upon his armor pre-battle by wiping his finger over it, his body was suddenly filled with holy vigor. A blood red aura overcame him and seemed to erupt like liquid fire.

He jumped at the dreadlord who blocked his mace's blow with its bare hands. Before the monster even had a chance to grin however, the seal's effects came into being. The strength of the mace's blow was tripled and flowed through the demon's arms, exploding around the elbows, severing both of the appendages.

As its purple blood splattered on his face, Jorad Mace lunged forward again, hitting again and again, the blows doubling, tripling, quadrupling, and quintupling. At last, as the demon fell to its knees bleeding from a hundred slashes, bashes, and cuts, Jorad lifted his hands and brought them together in a praying posture with his mace in the middle: the judgment was passed. A great hammer of pure light fell from the sky, crushing the nameless demon.

Blood and gut exploded outward as the nathrezim was utterly crushed. Jorad felt a sudden pain in his own stomach. Keeling over, a sprout of blood shot out from under his own armor. The seal had its own backfire, though he knew as much when he'd unleashed it.

To his horror, the dreadlord had not been slain by the attack. Somehow it slowly stood, armless, almost headless, and began to transform. It took the visage of one of the footmen…someone that was vaguely familiar.

Was it the loss of blood? Was he hallucinating? Jorad stumbled onto a knee.

"Why are you attacking me, Jorad?" the familiar figure asked, the voice full of pain.

"Who…are you?" the young paladin could barely hear his voice over the din of battle. Bodies constantly bumped into him, blood from both sides, filling the sky.

The familiar man took off his helmet, revealing a face that Jorad knew all too well. It was Prince Arthas. His long, golden hair fell from his bloodied head like a crown. He was as glorious as Jorad remembered.

It had been Arthas whom had been his inspiration…his goal. The Prince of Lordaeron, soon to be its greatest king. He was a true champion of justice, honor, and nobility.

Jorad clutched his Codex that hung under his arm. What was going on…Arthas had…

"You gave me your oath. Fulfill that oath, Jorad Mace. Aid me against these traitors!" Arthas commanded.

"Your highness—they are the soldiers of Lordaeron fighting for your father!" Jorad returned.

"Jorad Mace, are you betraying me as well?" Arthas asked.

"No—no…you, you are…" Jorad was lost for a moment. In that moment, he began to see the others, those whom he had just rushed into battle with, as true traitors; interlopers, usurpers, hellspawn.

"YOU BASTARD! YOU ARE THE TRAITOR, THE PATRICIDAL MONSTER!" he shouted out.

Suddenly, the sound of an airburst exploded over the land. The deep roar, something more than thunder, tossed the bodies of the dead into the air. The sky turned crimson and a great wind blew outward. Jorad turned to see what was going on.

The undead around them began to disintegrate. The rotting flesh fell from their bones. Gargoyles in the air turned to dust. As the bodies of the Scourge began to collapse the image of a man wreathed in scarlet light, swinging a peculiar sword, came into sight. Whatever the sword touched turned to ash. Around the man the very air sizzled and turned wavy like lake ripples.

_Lord Mograine…_

Jorad stood, bringing his hammer to bear. Around the figure of Arthas and Jorad the human troops cheered and rushed forward, leaving the two space for their own battle. The undead had been dispatched.

"_The Dreadlords have the ability to enter your mind and twist it to their ends. Fall not for their lies, believe in the Light, and all will become clear to you." _The words of Alexandros Mograine echoed in his head. The god-like paladin had briefed them on the types of demons they might encounter of the battlefield before hand.

Jorad clutched the Codex tighter in his hand. The figure of Arthas seemed to peel away, leaving only the wounded demon in its place. The paladin moved forward. The demon was defenseless, or so it would seem.

It bent over when it realized its ploy had failed and swiped at Jorad with its great horns. The paladin sidestepped and let his hammer fall to the ground. He pulled from his sheathe a short sword and stabbed into the neck of the demon. It stumbled to the ground.

"_The only true way to know they are dead is to decapitate such monstrosities. Make doing so your priority". _

"Purify this aberration, oh Holy Light." Jorad whispered, and brought the wounded beast close to his body, placing his blade at its neck. The dreadlord tried to disintegrate into a flock of bats, but just before the spell took full effect, Jorad pulled the blade closer in, cutting clean through the paper white flesh of the demon.

As the monster's head rolled on the ground, Jorad looked back at the oncoming flows of troops. Smiling, he tried to turn to see the Ashbringer, but the man had long since passed to another part of the battlefield.

"Did—I do well?" he looked the sky and asked. Jorad Mace crumpled to the ground, passed out from exhaustion and blood loss.

Blood Elf Division Staging Grounds

Kael'thas Sunstrider inspected his troops: his Sin'dorei. They were dirty and campaign-trodden, world weary and sore. However, even in such conditions the elf specimen kept its innate beauty. An inner light seemed to exude from each and every one of his people, though it was a little dimmer each day.

Quel'thalas had fallen. When that news reached him it was beyond his capability to comprehend. For days he could not process how…why…but the cold realization finally came to him.

Evening had come for the high elves. Everything he knew was destroyed; a thing of the past. The shining halls of Silvermoon were now shattered and gutted. Undead roamed aimlessly amongst the burned out wreckage of Quel'thalas. Not even the forests of the land survived. They were burned away in the firestorms. The blighted ground had claimed what little remained.

Most elves were slain in the valiant defense of their country, though in vain. His father was dead, along with the Ranger General Sylvanas and all the others whom stood in the way of the Scourge and its damnable Arthas. Even Dalaran, his second home, had been stolen.

Arthas…that name rang into the depths of his mind, bouncing and reverberating off of his deepest and darkest thoughts. He was the one responsible for everything.

Slowly, the Quel'dorei that survived began to gather around him, looking to the last Sunstrider for answers. One elf had returned to Kael the polished skull of his father, the late King of Quel'thalas. It had been recovered before the undead could use the body for reanimation. Kael carried the skull with him wherever he went as a burning sigil of all that had been.

Some days as they wandered the ruins of civilization gathering the elven survivors, Kael could feel a sickening emptiness within him, like a nausea and intense thirst. He quickly began to realize that his people too were suffering from the affliction. The prince surmised that indeed something had happened after the fall of Quel'thalas. He came to the conclusion that it was the Sunwell that was the source of the problem. He had heard that in their final attack, the Scourge had defiled the Sunwell's carefully balanced energies, completing the utter defeat of the elves.

That power, the Sunwell's power, had for so long sustained the elves, giving them the ability to do nigh what they wished. It sustained them and kept them immune to the elements, disease, and even age. Now though, it, along with everything else, was gone.

And so Kael pledged to find a new source of strength for his people. He only hoped he had taken the right course. Thereafter they began to name themselves Sin'dorei: Blood elves, in reverence to their dead.

All was in place. If correctly done, today's attacks would free Dalaran from the clutches of the monstrous Scourge. Lines of elven warriors, some clad in their traditional green and gold, others in blood red in remembrance, stood at the ready.

The survivors of the Ranger Corps, led by Lor'themar Theron, were a few hundred yards ahead, scouting and defeating any Scourge that might happen upon the Alliance flanking attack. It had to be kept an absolute secret.

The Combined Armies were almost ready to attack. With Stormwind at the center, the Combined Armies would make an unstoppable flanking maneuver, cutting into the undead bastions in Dalaran itself.

The Blood Elves had been placed at the very spear tip of the attack by the racist and pessimistic Marshal Garithos, whom had nudged and 'assumed' command of the Combined Armies, even though he had not fought with them until now. The spear tip would be the most dangerous position, and the first to hit enemy resistance.

Kael'thas smiled at the challenge however. He would prove that the elves were not dead yet. It was after all, another chance to kill undead. It would only irk Garithos more if the elves not only survived, but excelled.

The prince felt something swelling in his throat. Pride for his people, and the greatest wave of sadness he'd ever experienced. Kael'thas took the skull of his father out of the pocket in the magic resistant ebon cape that was flung around his blood red armor. He stared at it for a long while as the sound of battle came from the south west. The empty eyes seemed to stare back at him, demanding something that he just couldn't answer, or even figure out.

"We have all lost much in this conflict!" he shouted out, addressing his soldiers. "Not one of us has not last a family member; not one of us has not lost a home, a friend, or a dream!" Words began to emerge from his soul, speaking on behalf of his people, conveying their sorrow, their loss, and their desire for vengeance.

"There are those who may give up and huddle under the empty husks of the trees, and there are those who would hunt for revenge. Sons of Quel'thalas, my brothers! Let us reclaim our destiny, whatever the path may be!" Kael'thas lifted his father's blade, Quel'Serrar. The sword shimmered green like the summers of Eversong Forest, even under such squalid conditions.

The blood elves cheered, some with tears streaming down their faces, others with long, furrowed eyebrows in anger. The horn to advance came over them. Leading the way, the blood elves marched straight into the heart of the Scourge's forces. The Alliance's second hammer was falling.

Combined Alliance Armies, 4th Army Vanguard

Alain Serath, Captain General, 4th Army Commanding: that was his designation. The slightly balding, slightly graying general rode atop his chestnut brown Stromgardian steed he'd picked up during the campaign there.

He was in the front. This would be it; the great charge that would cut off the demons from their reinforcements. They had with them all dispersed amongst the Combined Armies the mages of Dalaran whom carried such expertise.

The thunder of 30,000 men and women was all around him. This attack was even greater than that of the first, though no artillery would cover them this time. All that had gone to the frontal assault.

Serath had commanded the 4th Army for a long time, being one of the few remaining original generals from the Second War along with Thorr Steelhewer, whose 7th was just off to his right wing. He had seen much of war, and was tired. Alain had been in battles from Crestfall to Zul'aman. However, this was the pinnacle right here. This would be the battle to decide it all. And he would suffer it with his men this one last time.

Serath dismounted and unsheathed his broadsword. In clinking golden armor he was a perfect target, standing out amidst the silver and grey and brown, though it would also make it easier to lead.

"Just what in the blazes do you think you are doing you fool! Get back on that horse!" a voice called out. It was Georges Penwright, the commanding officer for the 1st Army. He was a high-strung bastard. Penwright annoyed the hell right out of Serath.

"You can't lead men forward from the rear." The general simply said with a wry smile.

Penwright looked on in shock as the general disappeared behind the columns of charging footmen.

As the trees cleared the sight of Dalaran came into view. Its broken spires lay motionless and prostrate in the rubble filled streets. Gusty winds had picked up clouds of dust which slightly obscured his long range vision, though he quickly surmised that it wouldn't be enough to impair the attack.

"Go men! Go! Into the city!" Serath cried out. He felt the elation of the moment picking up. He felt as light as a feather, even though he was running in his cumbersome armor.

A battalion of skeletal swords stationed as defense on this side of the city, though the Scourge hadn't noticed the buildup of Alliance troops. They were unready. The plan had succeeded!

"58th Company take right! Pikes left!" Serath shouted out, running a few yards ahead of his men so they could hear him.

The skeletons turned to look at the massive sea of attackers. Were they humans or orcs, they would have run at the sight that was approaching them. Instantly they were crushed underfoot of the might of the Combined Armies.

As Alain passed into the outskirts of the city he began to see behind the rubble that there were more and more undead. To the right, far off, he could see that their endless lines were crossing pontoon bridges across the river Averass from Lordaeron into Dalaran.

The 7th Army would take care of the bridges. It was the 4th's job to finish off the Demon Gates. The charge continued forward. The undead began to muster a defense when they finally were able to realize what had happened on the eastern outskirts of the city; the enemy had attack, and in serious force. A second front had essentially opened.

As the two sides clashed amidst the destroyed ruins of Dalaran's shops and homes, Alain continued to lead his men directly. With his sword in the air, Alain's troops pushed deeper and deeper into the city, cutting apart all opposition.

Above gryphons from Aerie Peak, gyrocopters from Ironforge, frostwyrms, and gargoyles battled in great dogfights, reaching up into the sky and strafing barely feet above the surface of the ground.

Under the guidance of a Dalaran mage, Alain and his forces were able to navigate the clustered city streets. After advancing about a mile, Alain slowed the advance, waiting for more forces to show up. They were dangerously far from the rest of the Combined Armies. Not too far off a strange glow began to emanate through the orange dust storm.

"Lord Serath, that would be one of the Demon Gates we spoke of. We _must _destroy it immediately! Before they can channel any more troops through it!" one of the Dalarani mages pointed out.

"Very well. Lets go for it, but we can't advance any further until more troops have caught up. We're in danger of being cut off from our own lines." Alain ordered the advance. He probably had a few hundred men with him.

Slowly the troops advanced through the rubble, swords at the ready. Other than the wind and the distant sound of combat, there was no noise. Something was wrong. Alain knew that they hadn't punched their way all the way into the enemy's base yet. There should still be undead around.

It was strangely quiet.

Suddenly a torrent of zombies, skeletons, necromancers, abominations, and demons appeared from behind buildings, rubble, and the dust. His men were nearly surrounded. From behind a building several small demons carried what looked like a twisted, evil cannon.

There was a standstill for a moment. Both sides simply eyed each other. Slowly the humans began to inch towards their rear where no undead had yet appeared. Then with the sound of the cannon the battle began.

All at once Alain Serath realized what had happened. Like the calm before a storm, or the receding water before a wave, the Scourge had pulled back most of its force before striking hard and fast with everything they had.

The undead tricked the Alliance yet again.

"It's a counter attack! Hold the line!" Alain yelled out. And the fighting began. Shrapnel and canister shot, probably little bits of rock and nails shoved inside the muzzle of the strange fel cannon mowed down a dozen soldiers at once. Blood exploded into the air as their bodies fell, some without their heads, others entirely cut in half.

The men fell into line. Their flag was that of the 1st Lordegarde Infantry. The realization brought tears to Alain's eyes. They were the first regiment of Alliance soldiers ever raised from the capitol of Lordaeron, a city now crushed under the oppressive heel of domination. Not a living thing probably remained in Lordegarde, but these men held its memory, carrying a flag with Menethil Keep emblazoned on it.

A perimeter was quickly formed. They were defending themselves in a semicircle, undead rushing on all sides. At the edges of the perimeter the Scourge simply ignored them, pushing forward back towards the main frontline. Alain understood that they were a bulge in front of the army. An advanced force soon to be cut off entirely.

"Hold till the rest of the army gets here boys! Hold for Lordaeron! Hold for all that you know to be good!" Serath cried out. He waved his sword towards the enemy. Bodies flew left and right as the abominations crashed into the line. He noticed that the enemy was beginning to turn in direction, moving in an echelon towards Thorr Steelhewers open flank. If they hit the 7th Army there, they would utterly crumble.

He needed a horse. Alain needed to warn Thorr.

Explosions rocked the ground as the enemy brought up more of their fel cannon. Alain could tell he was losing men fast. Some began to turn and run. He stood in front of them, holding his arms up like he was being crucified. They did not stop. There was wild, instinctual fear in their eyes.

He still had a few hundred, but they would not hold long. The semicircle was beginning to close into a full one. They were being surrounded. It was almost the end unless they received some backup.

The enemy stopped their attacks for a few moments, pulling back to regroup and prepare to renew their assaults once more. A horseman suddenly rode in from the rear. "Sir, Lord Galen Trollbane begs to ask of your position!"

"Our position? We're surrounded on three sides. You need to get back to Steelhewer and tell him the enemy is coming towards him hard!"

"General Steelhewer is dead sir! He was taken down by an enemy spell caster. Insisted on riding his mount into battle." The herald spoke. With a tang of sorrow, Alain nodded. It sounded like Thorr to do such a thing.

"Who is in overall command?"

"Marshal Garithos I believe owns the left wing. Lord Trollbane has taken over the 7th."

"Warn Trollbane! Go! Quickly get out of here before the gap closes!" The horseman circled about and rode off, horse jumping over the bodies in the streets.

"You! Give me that flag!" he shouted out at the flag bearer. Men were still breaking and running. In seconds it would be an all out route unless he did something drastic. The flag bearer reluctantly handed the general his charge. Alain set the flag on the floor and began to hack it to small pieces with his sword.

"What are you doing!?" The bearer exclaimed.

"Distribute these to each man. Tell them to die before they give these up! That's an order" Alain shouted back.

With tears streaming down his face the flag bearer ran back and forth between Serath and the lines, handing each man a small portion of the flag they'd followed since the beginning of the war.

It was cruel, but it would make them fight like berserkers. Less and less men remained to give the flag up to each trip he and the flag bearer made. Once they could find no more to hand the pieces to, they stuffed what remained in their own armor and clothing and went to the front to aid.

"Alright boys! We hold them for as long as we can! If we fall, so does the 7th, and then the rest of the Combined Armies. We'll wheel out to the right and attack them as they pass us by. I won't lie…" he took a deep breath. He knew what was to come. "This will probably be our last attack. May the Light be with you all." Alain explained as his remaining men gathered around him.

There were so few now. Where minutes before there had been tens of dozens, there remained only about two or three score. The screams and cries of wounded pierced the air. Looking at the patches of the flag they held in their hands, the remnants stood resolute: prepared.

Long seconds of temporary peace passed. Men knelt down in prayer. Alain, already exhausted, arms and legs numb, continued to look passively into the orange dust that pervaded the battlefield. Everyone knew what was about to happen. There was no escape—only acceptance. The noises around him slowly became silent, and the only thing he could hear in the end was his beating heart.

The undead advanced. His men attacked. He ran alongside them like any other nameless soldier, his golden armor now covered in dirt. They would probably never identify his body, but that didn't matter. He would perish with the men who had followed him so long. It was fitting.

The world was slow. One man to his side fell to an arrow. He knelt down as the rain of arrows peppered the ground. Those with shields fell as well. The shaft of one of the missiles stuck out of his leg, but he pushed himself up with his arms and continued forward.

The distant sound of swords and crying was like rain on the plains…thunder from the side. There was lightning. Something hard hit him. Serath fell to the ground. He couldn't push himself up this time.

Warm blood pooled under his body like a summer river. Turning, he saw that it was one of the fel cannon that had mercilessly gunned down more of his men. Some of them, those few that remained, passed by the dead and wounded, charging forward.

He tried to speak, but soon realized it was impossible. A piece of shrapnel had ripped through his neck. He mouthed the words as blood seeped from his throat.

_Forward boys…never look back. Never stop. _

He blinked. The world was slowly turning black. At last…his peace had come after all these years of hard life. The last vision Alain Serath had was of his soldiers, now but shadows, moving forward into the heart of the enemy, ready to fight for not only themselves, but each other. He was proud and happy.

Alterac Mountains, 5 Miles outside Dalaran

What seemed like an endless line of men carried great carts filled with supplies; planks of wood, nails, hammers, and a hundred other things. In the whirling snow of the great, unnatural storms that had come from the west, these men crossed over a vein of the Alterac Mountains that extended towards the mage city.

It had taken them hours, but they'd left in the early morning, before the sun had even risen. So far they had traversed an exhausting fifteen miles up and around the mountains, led by those whom dwelt in this place, though thick patches of underbrush to great evergreen copses, and even past sheer rock faces where only two men abreast could pass.

Standing by one of these cliffs one could see the battle unfold in its full exposition: a living masterpiece. The men simply passed by, ignoring the chaos below. They had somewhere else to go before joining that madness.

_As Stormwind's assault on the Casted Vale continued relentlessly, the Combined Armies which had been through so much, from battlefields ranging from Tyr's Hand to the Thandol Span, attacked. _

_In a massive rolling wave, both sides flanked each other like two snakes swallowing each other's tails. The center for the Alliance began to weaken as successive waves of undead and demons continued to smash into their lines. _

_At the Alliance rear, General Marcus Jonathan led the Stormwind Keep Guard in defense of the Alliance's supply line and route of retreat by drawing the attack away from the Alliance's staging grounds and towards the western mountains._

_Kel'thuzad's magical storm began to also take its toll on the Alliance. With almost nowhere to run, pelted by apple sized hail, those without helms suffered severe injuries to the head more often than not. The wind and rain also helped create thick sludge holes in the ground where many would end up getting stuck. _

_ The great battle continued to unfold in untold ways, the tide turning and receding. Even after a long hour of continuous combat the outcome was unclear. Dalaran's troops had managed to make it into the city proper, though were stalled when they encountered a set of Demon Gates from which the Legion supplied its infinite bodies. The Combined Alliance Armies too had made it into the city, crushing the paltry and unready defenses at the eastern boroughs, but after Kel'thuzad shifted his most elite cadre of troops, the drive was stopped. In a climactic struggle, many of the Combined Alliance's leaders were slain as they attempted to lead their soldiers forward to break the stalemate. _

_Quick breaks in the combat punctuated intense, bloody counters. The Alliance had expended great amounts of men and material. The battlefield was littered with bodies. There were so many in fact that the number of necromancers couldn't keep up with raising them all._

_Both sides were beginning to tire. The great punching match was slowing down. The flanking maneuver seemed to be at least somewhat successful. The number of demons coming from Dalaran also seemed to be drastically less. _

_After several counters by the Scourge, the Alliance began to lose ground in Dalaran. As the daylight began to wane, the Alliance looked to lose everything in their gamble. The hours swirled on, and the battle descended into madness, all control fading in the midst of such savage fighting. And still the Dogs of War could not be found… _

Outskirts of Dalaran, Center Battlefield

It was a battle of attrition. The "Ashbringer", Alexandros Mograine, knew such. He also knew that inevitably, the Alliance couldn't stand up to the Scourge in a battle of that sort, even if the Scourge couldn't raise any more dead or ferry demons from the Nether.

He knelt behind a pile of corpses, praying. Dozens of dead men and women were stacked atop one another. There were probably enough to walk to Lordegarde and never touch the dirt.

It angered him. It angered him that these good hearted, young, Light-fearing fellows had to die. Indeed it was for a cause, but it was an unnatural one, for the undead were all that was unholy and evil.

Such good men, pah, boys, shouldn't have to die fighting aberrant and perverse monstrosities. No, nothing could have spawned this baneful scourge upon the world save the machinations of the Shadow.

Where believers of the old pagan deities might have believed it was their wickedness and sin returned in physical manifestation, the Light taught that the root of all evil lay in the mysterious and heinous realm of the Shadow; the Light's opposite. This Shadow was behind even the Legion. It was its guiding will.

Mograine stood. Before him the bodies began to burn in a righteous fire. The vessels of these men's spirits would not serve to become husks to be turned against their own friends and kinsmen. No, this cremation in holy fire was their gift for the services they had rendered.

"Go with the Light, brothers." He whispered.

There had been a break in the combat. The Stormwind center had become so battered and bruised that it could no longer function as a cohesive unit. All around him Mograine could tell that the army was beginning to fall apart.

Fear, panic, and confusion were the weapons of the Scourge when numbers did not suffice. However, what the Alliance needed was a true, guiding purpose. He had known that it lacked such a goal for years, ever since the destruction of the Horde. It had become complacent and fat, and that complacency was what led to the quick destruction of Lordaeron.

Lordaeron…a place he swore to return to soon. What he swore, he did. He had never broken an oath in his life, and even these circumstances would not stop him. He and his soldiers had heeded the call after rescuing Tyr's Hand and the 3rd Army that had been stationed there from a Scourge siege.

He had already begun to set up the next campaigns in Lordaeron. Tyr's Hand had become a base when he rescued it. Many of the remaining holdouts were turning to his side as well, like Hearthglen. Soon, with or without the assistance of the Alliance, a crusade to retake Lordaeron, to retake _their _land would begin.

"Alexandros…the Scourge are reforming." A voice spoke. It was Isillien, a priest- liaison to the shattered Knights of the Silver Hand. Isillien, a balding man in his fifties, was a holy man. His knowledge and wisdom pertaining to the Light surpassed perhaps even him. Where Mograine possessed an innate blessing from the Light, a natural talent for harnessing its strength, Isillien was a master its power through long hours of devotion, study, and discipline. He was a truly impressive soul.

The two had traveled and fought together to establish their organization as Lordaeron fell into ruin. Along with the other paladins and heroes of the Grand Monastery, as well as one of the first paladins of all time, Saidan Dathrohan, they brought hope to a downtrodden land, defeating the Scourge where they had previously gone without an opponent. When all the Alliance had been called together, they knew it was their chance to spread the message. The Crusade would be born here, in Dalaran.

"Isillien, it is time. Let us inspire them." He replied. Turning to the wavering lines of Alliance soldiers, he cleared his throat, wiped away the blood splatters on his face, and spoke up. "Warriors of the Alliance, of humanity! Let us reclaim the honor that we once held, let us avenge the lives that have been felled by the inhumane and alien forces of our enemy. Let us drive them from these lands, until the very soil itself is forever freed from the scarlet blood they have spilled! RAISE HAMMERS, BARE STEEL!"

The soldiers instantly cheered. With Alexandros Mograine at their head, they knew all was remedied. He would lead them to victory, as he always had. After all, Mograine had never lost. They took up the cry: "For the scarlet blood! For the lives taken!"

The line charged. The line, and then a regiment. Commanders saw the force go forward and were stricken with the bravery and greatness of those men. They advanced where moments before they were ready to run for their lives. The everyday solider, whether Azerothian greenhorn or Lordaeron veteran saw the charge; they were touched. They heard the deafening cry. For miles a thunderous roar pierced the air. It was the sound of a year of unspeakable atrocity condensed into the combined voices of thousands.

Rage, despair, fear, sickness, frustration, sadness, lust, anger, hate, revenge, simple, plain, or deep, heavy emotions ran in the noise. Even as the rain and lightning beat down on them, they ran forward. They had nothing to lose. Fighting was the only action that came to mind. Everyone had lost someone. The memory of that fresh loss drove them onward. Tears streamed down the faces of thousands. They swung their swords harder than usual. They moved faster than usual, even though they were already wasted from combat. It was a battle high.

They had all of them been reminded of why they were here.

In the center of the whirling chaos was Mograine, leading the chants. Left and right, forward and behind, undead were cast into clouds of black ash as his blade, the Ashbringer, fell upon them. The sword had been forged by King Magni Bronzebeard himself, using the strange gem that Mograine had procured during the great battles in Azeroth at the end of the last war. The dwarf monarch had claimed it was his greatest creation ever, and Alexandros could not deny such.

Alexandros began to channel the Light's energies to such a degree that even the clouds above them began to break apart. Pure, golden sunlight beamed from above, falling upon him. Any undead and demons around him where the light touched instantly began to fall apart, unable to counter such power. He had gone beyond the beyond, reaching into a realm previously only brushed by Uther the Lightbringer.

From the sky, a demon lord of incredible power, Kazzak, Kabbal of the Flights, descended. Flanking him were dozens of his kin, the doom guard. They circled the great pillar of light, knowing full well what would happen if they entered its domain. Any gryphons that attempted to intercept them were immediately blown back by the wind of their beating wings and then melted by the acidy spit from the mouths of the demons, or torn to bloody chunks by the gigantic claws and maws.

Kazzak swept downward to the ground, slicing off the heads of dozens of soldiers with his diamond tipped wings before flapping to the floor itself. The sheer strength of his wing beats pushed the almost vertical rain away form him, splattering it into the faces of those before him.

The massive demon, thirty feet tall, stood before Mograine and his light. He brought to hand a gigantic morning star which steamed a bright green. For a moment, the two stared at each other.

"Come on then, demon! Duel me." Mograine shouted as his troops pushed onward around them.

It was a picture out of the Light's books. Something truly epic…

Mograine smiled and held out his left arm, motioning for the demon to come closer. It stood still. Mograine's white teeth showed beneath his red beard. Indeed, the power of the Light struck fear into such a monster.

Alexandros dashed forward. Instantly Kazzak swung downward, the chain and ball speeding towards the ground faster than Mograine imagined possible. He planted a foot in the ground midstride and awkwardly jumped to the side, barely avoiding the morning star as it crushed a mass of skeletons, sending a plume of dirt into the sky.

Regaining his posture, Mograine stood tall as Kazzak slowly turned to face him. The demon let loose a gigantic roar whose sound waves alone pushed Mograine back. From its belly as the roar erupted, a green, blistering heat also came. The paladin suddenly realized he couldn't hear much. There was a dull pain in his head, ringing in the helmet. His eardrums had been burst.

Blood streaming from both his ears, Mograine ignored the sudden show of power. "For King Terenas!" he screamed, dodging a swipe from Kazzak, jumping up to avoid another one while twisting in the air to deliver a cut on the beast's arm. The blade hit demon-flesh, but the cut was light. Nonetheless, thick, green, blood, streamed from the wound before Mograine even hit the ground.

Before he could even react however, Kazzak's arm came down in a crushing blow directly to the paladin's back, breaking several ribs and throwing discs in his spine out of alignment. His armored plate that protected the area was cracked and thrown off, the chain mail under it shattering into a thousand pieces.

Mograine was thrown fifteen yards forward, landing on his helm which, after taking the brunt of the blow, bounced off his head. His vision became wavy. Blood streamed from a dozen wounds, but Mograine could still feel the heat of the Light in him. Staring at the sky on his back for a moment, the clouds sending their torrents of rain to the world below, Mograine attempted simply to regain control of his breathing after the wind was knocked out of him by the attacks.

He saw a flashing object, a green blur. It was Kazzak's Morningstar. Somehow his body found the power to instinctively roll to the side. He narrowly dodged the blow, but when he attempted to stand, he could only make it to his knees. Pain coursed through his veins like blood. But the Light was still there…it was always there…defending, protecting, vindicating, and judging. YES.

Mograine stood. The light from his body erupted once again like golden flame, bursting through the cloud ceiling. The torn sinews, broken bones, ruptured organs all began to regenerate and reconnect. The Light was healing him as it had the day he and the others had purified the crystal that created the Ashbringer.

"Taste a little of the Light, demon." Mograine whispered, the Ashbringer in his hands glowing brighter with every moment. Quickly its image became blinding. To look into it was as if to look into the sun.

Mograine took a wide posture as Kazzak attempted to swat the light out of his eyes. In sync with the Light, Mograine could literally see the before and after-images of Kazzak's movement. He could predict it…

Jumping up, he landed directly on Kazzak's arm, implanting the Ashbringer deep into the upper arm tissue as an anchor. Kazzak flailed about. Sensing the opportunity, Mograine jumped up to the creature's shoulder after ripping out the Ashbringer. Again he dove the blade into the demon flesh. The area around the wound turned to ash quickly, so Mograine had to move fast before losing his grip.

After another two jumps, he was at the top of the beast's shoulder. Kazzak attempted to shake Mograine off, but his movements were to no avail. In a single motion, the man who would one day be recognized by his weapon ran up the beast's shoulder and slashed across its neck. He was off balance though, and as Kazzak reacted to the gash in his neck, Alexandros fell twenty feet, cracking his right angle under the weight of his body and armor as he hit the ground.

Mograine stood yet again, tossing aside his breastplate to free his movement and lessen the pain in his foot. Kazzak was thrashing in pain as well. Blood oozed from its neck where the Ashbringer had struck. The area around the wound was black as if it had been burned with a mage's flame spell.

Roaring something, Kazzak spread his massive wings and exploded into the sky, retreating. There was a cheer.

Alexandros Mograine turned. His troops cheered at the awesome spectacle.

"For Lordaeron!" he cried out.

"_**Ashbringer!**_"

"For the Light!"

"_**Ashbringer!**_"

"FORWARD!"

"_**Ashbringer!**_"

As the "Ashbringer" Alexandros Mograine led Alliance's broken center into one final counter attack, the Scourge pushed too on all fronts. Unbeknownst to them and most of the Alliance however, a fleet of boats of all sizes made their way down the Averass River towards Dalaran.

Dalaran Ruins

Kel'thuzad directed the battle like a game of chess. Whilst the demon Haures sat on his throne biding time, the Scourge lich lord used all of his knowledge and cunning to commit his limited forces to the fight.

The damnable living assault on Dalaran proper had stalled the reinforcements of demons when their mages had shut down many of the Nether gates. Now another push, perhaps the final one they could muster, was taking place.

The Scourge still had the advantage in numbers, though the ambient mana in the area had already been absorbed. Kel'thuzad had had to place more time and effort into draining mana via the interconnected Ley-lines from far off places to supply both himself and his necromancers with energy to perform their spells.

If it continued like this, the Legion and Scourge would likely still win, though there was the possibility, and a rather uncomfortably large one, that the Alliance would prevail.

Suddenly five bolts of flame shot out from in front of him. Recalling his mind back to its bony case, Kel'thuzad realized that by wasting concentration trying to drain far off Ley-lines, he'd allowed some of the enemy to break through.

Two mages, one an elder woman probably in her late fifties wearing a blue robe, and a younger, red haired man wearing purple chain and plate approached quickly. One of the flaming bolts singed the lich's ribcage, though the rest missed. They had originated from each of the fingers the red haired man held up.

"How the mighty have fallen…" the red haired mage said, exasperated. Kel'thuzad recognized him. It was Rhonin from the Council of Six. They had been former collegues and rulers of Dalaran. Rhonin looked upon Thuzad with something akin to pity.

"We're here to take back our city, Kel'thuzad." The other said. It was Archmage Belinda, another member of the Council.

Kel'thuzad laughed. "What a reunion. My friends, do you like the redecoration we've done?"

Around the three the ruins of Dalaran lay still, the sounds of distant battle echoing back and forth through the empty valleys of broken skyscrapers and towers. Through the city's former streets, rainwater overflow from the great summoned storm ran. Even the river behind the city was overflowing, threatening to drown the entire Casted Vale.

Here were some of the most powerful players in the entire battlefield. Their worth was as much as armies, their powers beyond reckoning. Dalaran's proud mage masters against one of their fallen brethren, the strongest lich of the undead Scourge.

Though Rhonin had fought many a caster before, he had never felt the pressure of the killing intent and danger that Kel'thuzad animated. It seemed as if an invisible wall around him prevented anything from getting close.

_When fighting another caster there is an entire new set of rules. You must be aware of all things when faced off against one. This is impossible, so instead you must prepare beforehand. If this can't be done, you follow 5 rules. _

_Magic is chaotic. Anything can happen. Do not be surprised. Ever._

_Never underestimate your enemy. A caster requires no large muscles or terrifying weapon. All they need is their wisdom and knowledge, be it from a child, demon, or animal._

_Everything around you is a weapon that you, or they, can use. Even the very particles of air around you and skin on your body can be turned against you or used to your advantage._

_Outwit your opponent. When using magic, your spells too can be self-harming. Choose the quickest, easiest, and most effective path to victory by judging every movement, every look, and every action your opponent undertakes._

_Know yourself better than your opponent does. Magic is not glory. Do not let pride blind you._

Rhonin couldn't read Kel'thuzad at all. He was unnatural. The mage began to feel more pressure. Belinda however felt nothing but rage. Using the teleporting blink spell, she traveled towards Thuzad's side. Before she even regained her footing, Belinda heaved her staff forward, slamming its butt onto the ground, releasing a huge blast of energy. In all directions rubble exploded outwards, leaving a small crater.

Kel'thuzad too had been blown back a little, though seemed unfazed by the attack. Belinda surrounded herself in a shield of flames again.

Kel'thuzad threw his first move. Hissing, he extended his arms. All the water in Dalaran, the flooding, the rain, even the sewers, turned instantly to ice. Rhonin, younger and with faster reflexes, jumped up before the icy tendrils had reached him, escaping the attack. Belinda however surrounded herself in a ring of purple flame, melting away the danger.

It had been a close one. As Rhonin looked around, all he saw was sparkling ice. Even the water that had been running off the rubble was frozen, giving everything a gleaming look as bolts of lightning lit up the sky. Ice pellets that had been the rain knocked off of his armor and head.

Thuzad had committed to such a high level spell. He'd literally frozen Dalaran and all the air around it in an instant. Incredible…just incredible.

When he looked back towards Kel'thuzad, the lich had disappeared. He heard the plunging sound of a weapon on flesh. Instantly he whirled to his left. Kel'thuzad was outstretched, reaching though Belinda's flames with an ice spear in his hand. It protruded through the sorceress' chest and out her back.

Belinda looked surprised. She'd broken the first rule. Rhonin looked on in horror as Kel'thuzad sucked Belinda's life force though his icy spear. The woman mage literally began to melt, the skin drooping and wrinkling, breaking and falling off. Odd, strangled noises emerged from her throat. As the skin and muscle sloughed off, her innards spilt out, leaving a shiny red husk of a skeleton in its place still standing. Rhonin saw for a split second a bullet of blue energy explode from Kel'thuzad and enter the skeleton.

Suddenly the empty eye sockets came to life with the same eerie glow as Kel'thuzad's and the skeleton which had only moments before been one of the most powerful mages of Dalaran had become nothing but a pathetic pawn of the Lich King.

Rhonin was awestruck.

"Now, where were we?" Kel'thuzad asked, inching closer to the red haired mage.

Rhonin relaxed his knees and opened his senses. He raised his hands, staff in one, wand in the other. Suddenly Kel'thuzad looked the other direction.

"WHAT!?" the lich exclaimed.

From the other side of the city, the sounds of another battle were erupting.

River Averass

The Dogs of War rowed down the river in rafts, slick sloops, and Tirassian cruisers. With them was a contingent of Kul Tiras marines whom had sailed up the river days prior.

The Dogs would climb through the steep mountain passes, bypassing Dalaran as the initial attack and the initial flanking attack went in. As they reached the river, assisted by the Tirassian engineers and marines, even more boats were built. Enough to house thousands down the river. The rest were marching parallel to the banks and would arrive shortly.

It had been his plan, and there was no way in hell the Scourge would have expected this…an attack to their rear from water. The walls of Dalaran still stood in its rear half, though his archers had come up with the idea of mounting the crow's nests and piling pieces of wood and boxes to reach over the walls with their arrows. Valdar Justax, on the lead boat, unsheathed his sword from its newly made scabbard. He wore the armor that had been forged but a few days ago; it was plain, save for a great Lordaeron L blazed into its chest piece. Thorek Ghent stood on the deck below, watching the new move unfold.

Even now, he could only imagine the utter confusion the Scourge was thrown into. Arrows and mage fire were being blasted directly over the walls of the city, hitting with deadly accuracy against any necromancers or special, higher tiered Scourge and demons they could find.

The crusty former low ranking cavalry soldier turned spy network master grinned, showing his ugly teeth to the world. His Missives had been behind the plan. They were the ones who had snuck the messengers through to the Kul Tiras marines trapped in a pocket with former Lordaeron navy sailors upriver.

Ha! The puns he'd think of for the demons and Scourge after this battle.

"Sir! The first troops are disembarking. We'll be ready momentarily." A soldier reported. Indeed the motley flotilla of canoes, battleships, and fishing boats began beaching themselves on the grainy, overflowed shores of the Averass River. Not far behind the first lines of those whom hadn't made it to the boats were preparing to charge.

Some boats had made it all the way up the river and into the first ruins of the city due to the intense flooding and favorable winds. Everything was going perfectly.

"'ear that sir?" Ghent shouted to Valdar. The leader of the Dogs of War descended the rope ladder, passing by several archers firing off pot shots into the war torn city.

"Aye, I did. Let's go, Thorek. Let's finish it."

The two jumped off the bow of the boat, landing with a crunch. Around them the army assembled, prepared to attack. Valdar grasped the staff of a flag bearer, taking the banner gently from him. Osra, Cyrus Faim'las, and Casper Valus moved to flank him. They would be his entourage into the fight.

Ghent heard Valdar whisper something and then unfurl the flag, letting the patchwork that had become their pride loose into the storm's wind. The men cheered as they saw the giant flag come to life, the black wolf on it jumping up and down in bloodlust.

And Valdar leapt off into the battle, hundreds following him. Ghent admired him from afar as he lead the men into the fight.

_You've grown since I met yah' Valdar. I remember a playful boy, eager and stupid but little more than a year ago. Now you are hard, experienced, and melancholic. Your wisdom precedes your years, and you've earned the right to stand amongst great men. _

_The path of a hero is a hard one though, isn't it? Hero…you never liked that, but it'll follow you now, depending on how this battle ends up. So let's win, Valdar. Let's win._

Thorek Ghent followed his friend into the fray.

_The Dogs of War cut deep into the northern part of the city. The third blow, unexpected by the Legion or Scourge, hit hard and fast. It was a stroke of genius, in the field of tactics, overall strategy, logistics, and imagination. _

_The plan was cobbled together at the last minute by great minds, knowing that the frontal assault on Dalaran was practically impossible. Too many would die, and not enough would live to secure the victory. _

_Shields were bashed, swords kissed. _

_Around and around the same story went. Everywhere in the city and around it, from house to house, store to store, from broken tower to grassy field and raging river to dark forest, the same story was written. _

_A peasant from a farming family, hearing the call to glory, picked up his father's rusted armor and sword, joining the cause to find no such glory in battle. A lumberjack, wanting to bring some extra money home to his ailing mother, swung his forest-chopper down on a felguard. The son of a nobleman, wanting to prove himself worthy of fair lady, rode down a column of undead with his colorful lance and pageantry. He was all too soon knocked out of his saddle by an abomination. A mason from Ironforge piloting his siege tank that he'd pride fully built with his master, intent of defending his city, punched full throttle, diving into a pool of demons. A former street urchin looking to escape the gangs, thieves, and cutthroats of the underworld of Stormwind fell backwards, his chest opened cleanly with the tip of a polearm. Even a prince who had lost everything fought. _

_Valdar Justax lead the attack, his maverick Dogs of War the only soldiers willing to endure such a harsh march through the mountains and then sail past the undead's defenses and come at the completely from behind. _

_As the battle unfolded, Justax and his ally, Cyrus Faim'las, sought out the overlord of the Legion in Lordaeron, Haures, knowing that indeed the demon was the key to victory. _

North Dalaran, Magus Commerce Exchange

Cyrus Faim'las ran alongside countless warriors. Though neither the same race or shared the same beliefs, he and these countless had banded together. Long since had he discarded such thoughts though.

Beside him was a human who had been miraculously granted the ability to use the artifact Dragias had called _Kaldaei. _The monstrous blade held far more power than Valdar Justax ever believed. In itself it was an artificial Ley-line, capable of harnessing energy from across the world and cutting through the incorporeal and perhaps even the fabric of reality.

He told the human none of this though, only that it could be used as a weapon against Haures, whom he held a grudge against. That same human let the sword hang at his side like any other while leading a column of men over the fallen remains of a tower and at another barricade of Scourge.

He had truly no idea of the power he was granted, though as Cyrus had come to know him, the less and less he thought of Valdar as a liability. He was honest, and had no true ill will, other than his thirst for revenge. Even though he'd talked to him many times since they had met, he still didn't know much about the man. He seemed to be very quiet and detracted. Cyrus had had to talk to others, particularly Ghent and Osra about Valdar.

The scope of the human's pain was the same as his. They shared much in common on top of their mission, which bound Cyrus to the human even tighter. Yes, the two of them would see this through to the end, even if it cost them their lives.

"Valdar! There is an incredible source of power coming from the ruins of the Violet Citadel. I am willing to bet my life that Haures is there, soaking in the energy that the mages channeled there in the years past!" Cyrus yelled over the din.

"Then let us go there!" the human replied. "Osra! You are in charge! Lead them like I would!"

The human girl suddenly turned around, her hair flipping wildly. "What?! Me? Lead them? Are you insane! They would never listen to me!"

"Osra Mauer! They trust you! I trust you! Do a good job. SURVIVE! That is your order" Valdar shouted out, pointing in the direction of the heart of Dalaran. She knew the plan as well as any of them.

Osra's blue eyes were wide. Valdar had just transferred command to her. His eyes however were icy steel. He was completely serious. Osra slowly nodded, drawing her short sword and taking Valdar's flag.

The men gathered around began to follow the flag. That flag was the same symbol that had led them to victory to victory, battlefield to battlefield. They followed it.

As the streams of men went by, Cyrus, Ghent, Valdar, and Casper stood by. A small contingent of troops remained with them. They would spearhead into the ruins of the Violet Citadel.

"Gentlemen, it's been a long road. It hasn't always been straight, and the directions have been confusing, but we've made it. This is our destination. This is our destiny. It has been the greatest journey. I am proud of you all, no matter the outcome." Valdar spoke, turning to face the north of Dalaran. From there, a great light began to burn, sizzling away the clouds. Green filled the sky. Haures was just over there, waiting.

"Let's go, partner." Valdar said, nodding in the direction of Haures to Cyrus.

Northern Dalaran

Valdar and his men battled through the ruins. They ran uphill, batting aside skeletons that arose to slow them. Up and up they went, up the mountain of ruins. Atop the green light began to engulf the sky, spreading its tendrils into the very storm. Even the lightning was tainted green.

The great towers of the Violet Citadel now lay prostrate, gutted open. The incredible tapestries, libraries, and works of art that were once housed inside lay amongst the tattered remains of the city. They were under the blocks of stone or scattered about them.

"Keep going! We're almost there!" Valdar shouted out. More and more undead began to appear, but the group kept moving forward. Cyrus and Casper's magic destroyed them en masse, but it was not enough. Soon eredar and other casters appeared, but the group kept moving up the mound of rubble.

Valdar could feel his anger boiling. It had taken him so long to get here, but he had finally arrived. Just over there was Haures. Ellena had been taken from him, along with everything else.

He knew others felt the same way, and so it was not only for him that he did this, but for them. He could literally feel the injustices permeating the air. It was enough to choke him. His face was flushed with fury. It was becoming difficult to think clearly.

"Spread out, run over them!" Ghent exclaimed. The group began to spread thin, more of them dying with every passing minute. However, they lost none of their momentum.

With Cyrus sniping the casters now with his pinpoint spells, Casper handling the great mobs of skeletons and the remaining footmen cleaning up the remains, they approached the top where the green light continued to grow and intensify. Haures was there.

Valdar drew his sword. Cyrus noticed how it began to glow. Purple and silver steam began to rise off of its surface. The actual blade itself was glowing, the opaque crystal becoming phenomenally charged with magic. How was he doing that? Was the weapon activated by Valdar's emotions?

Valdar noticed the weapon's activation as well, but put it out of his mind as soon as he saw the perplexed look on Cyrus' face. If the former Excubitor didn't know what was going on, he doubted anyone would.

Swinging the weapon once at a skeleton that had appeared, a curving pathway of steam followed the sword. As the blade hit the skeleton, something incredible happened. The blue glow in the monster's eyes dissipated, but before it could fall, the bone of the undead frame began to quickly convert into a different form of matter. They were thrown out of their original state, the old stuff being disintegrated, leaving behind only a crystal formation where the skeleton had once stood: all from a simple touch.

"Alchemy?" Valdar wondered out loud. The sudden spell had caused his anger to subside a little.

"Keep moving you fool, we are almost there!" Ghent slapped him upside the head.

The group continued upwards, but more were felled. As they reached the top, one by one, the toll soon became clear. Where thirty had started, only four remained: Valdar, Cyrus, Casper, and Ghent. They had cleared the gauntlet, and now below, in the base of the ruined Violet Citadel itself, was a throne made of skulls and writhing spirits. Atop it sat Haures, channeling the energy of Azeroth into himself.

The ground swept downward from where they were. Like a great crater the foundation of the Violet Citadel spread out around them.

The being, with the vague humanoid shape, stood up on its two legs. The demon had grown since they had last met. Cyrus claimed that as they channeled magic, their true forms came into being, and not the compacted frames they used to enter into the world. For demons of great strength to travel through the Nether and into Azeroth was akin to person too large to enter a small door. In order to get through, they had to shed what they didn't need and take it back after they entered, passing it through bit by bit.

Haures still had those eerie purple eyes like two amethyst gems, glowing even in the darkness of the storm. The wrappings on his face and arms had come off, leaving a being, not hideous, and not handsome. With blue flesh like a human's, Haures sported no hair. His forearms however were segmented into armored plates, as with the chest and legs and back. They already knew though that Haures could shift shape with at least his arms and use incredible majik. Slowly, Haures descended from his platform onto a pile of inanimate skeletons that held up his throne. As he stepped, the air around him swayed creating wind.

Valdar's eyes narrowed. Unable to think straight, he bolted downwards, sword pulled behind his back, prepared to strike.

"Fool!" Cyrus shouted out, holding out an arm as if to stop the human.

"AAAAARRRHHHHH!" Valdar jumped into the air, swinging the scintillating sword downwards in slow motion. The arc he'd swung in was traced by the magical steam left behind by the sword, penetrated and disintegrated by the rain.

The sword came down onto the floor, crushing the skulls below it, Haures side stepping the blind attack.

"**You are the most dangerous one.**" Haures spoke, and faster than anyone could see, he moved his arm up, slapping Valdar with the plate on the side of it. The human sailed through the sky, rolling and rolling as he landed through the rubble, eventually being stopped by a stone pillar. He did not get up.

"**And now you are no longer a worry.**"

Ruins of the Violet Citadel

"Valdar! " Ghent shouted out. He ran over to the fallen warrior.

"**I won't dally with the rest of you like a fool. You will all die now.**" Black plasma bubbled from within Haures, so hot that lightning began to crackle around it.

"He is channeling more power from the Nether! We need to stop him now!" Casper Valus exclaimed. He swung his staff around, gathering up all the air he could, compressing the nitrogen and super freezing it. Cyrus felt for the magic of the Old One. Upon feeling it's disgusting presence, he summoned it forth, using his body as a vessel for its power.

Both of them fired off their attacks at the same time, Casper unleashing a cone of cold spell to slow the demon, and Cyrus a forbidden spell of the Excubitors. They both found plenty of magic to interlace with their ingredients, stealing it away from Haures' overflowing reservoir of Ley energy, boosting the efficiency and power of both of their spells.

Haures' body was frozen into ice by Casper's relentless assault of frost attacks. Again and again the mage attacked, not stopping until he couldn't breathe anymore. As the frosty steam cleared, the figure of Haures, stopped dead in his tracks, appeared. However, one foot stepped forward, ice cracking and falling off of it like a melting iceberg. The other went forward, and soon the whole body moved. Haures crouched into a ball, and suddenly stood, spreading his arms. Shards of ice flew from his body like glass, cutting into Cyrus' robe and skin.

Suddenly Haures appeared behind both Casper and Cyrus, holding out a single finger. Casper looked at him in despair. Suddenly the mage screamed, his stomach expanding then exploding, flames overtaking his body.

"Casper!!" Ghent screamed from the other side of the arena. The human mage whom had come so far with the Dogs of War, once a traitor who had finally redeemed himself through so many battles, fell to the floor in a heap, burning.

Cyrus instinctively jumped backwards, putting up a frost shield. The image before him was horrific. This was truly the lord of demons; a being more powerful than any other in Azeroth. He could literally see his own death as he stared at the slowly approaching Haures. His body told him to run. His brain told him to run.

From what he saw, Haures used flame based elemental attacks the most. He'd used them at Thoradin's Wall, and again when dueling Dragias. With the aid of the Old One, he might survive long enough for Valdar to regain consciousness and help him. After all, it was only he that could defeat Haures with that titan-forged blade.

Cyrus let a small smirk through his usually passive demeanor. He'd been through a lot in the past few months. He'd discarded his morals, lost his homeland and family, gained incredible powers, and found in a mere human the ability to wield a weapon beyond his own imagination. Before that he had witnessed the beginning of the end for Lordaeron, followed in the footsteps of Prince Arthas, and beheld the Plague in all of its deadly, terrifying virulence.

Indeed, things had changed; where once he would have run, he stood his ground. Even in the face of certain doom, Cyrus Faim'las swung his staff forward, aiming at Haures. Tentacles and putrid liquid filled the ground below him. The tentacles of the Old Ones power shot forward, faster than a bullet, toward Haures.

They wrapped themselves around the unsuspecting demon lord, pulling him in to an arm's length away. The tentacles singed as they touched the kabbal leader's epidermis. Slowly they began to tighten, strangling their victim.

"**What is this power, elf?**" Haures asked, curious.

"I want to see how you'll react to this, beast!" Cyrus shouted out, pointing his pressing his staff against the head of the demon, right between his eyes.

Haures did not respond. That irked Cyrus. It meant he was no threat…

_I'll show you, you bastard!_ Cyrus began channeling everything he had; from the Old God, from _Kaldaei, _even from Haures himself. The crystal at the end of his staff glowed, swirling with untold energy. The ball of magic continued to grow and grow until it was larger than even Cyrus himself.

Haures began to squirm. "**Using such power would destroy yourself, elf. What do you think you are doing?** **Stop! You'll destroy everything here!**" Haures called out.

"Oh? Afraid of getting hurt? Or is it that you are using this place as an array to gather the magic that is your goal?" Cyrus laughed.

"**Karazhan's power will be mine! You won't stop it! You can't! It's already begun!**" Haures broke free of Cyrus' tentacle prison, reached towards the mage.

Cyrus cackled manically. "You're right! You can't stop it!" _Not at least with the power that you've pumped into your avatar in this world. _He unleashed the spell just as Haures reached him, sending the attack off course. Instead it exploded right in Haures and Cyrus' faces. Cyrus' magical shield kept out most of the incredible blast, but it still managed to throw the mage far off, singing his flesh on his chest and face, blinding him in one eye. Haures fared even worse, being in the direct path of the monstrous combustion.

The spell, wildly off course, blasted itself off into the nearby mountains. As the actual ball of energy reached the nearest mountain, it unleashed its full potential. The mountain side literally exploded, sending gigantic chunks of bedrock into the distance.

Cyrus sat up after a long while, his consciousness wavering. He was dizzy…almost falling back down, Cyrus planted his arms in front of him. He looked up. Haures was already reforming from the black liquid he'd been blasted into.

_Damn it all…_

As soon as Haures had returned to his full form, he began to trek over towards where he'd thrown Valdar. He was going to finish the job on an unconscious victim. Cyrus attempted to get up, but fell back to his knees. He had nothing left…

Suddenly, Thorek Ghent emerged from the rubble, sword in hand. "You fool…you should have run. You are nothing to him. Not even air…" Cyrus wheezed. With his elf eyes and ears he could tell the events happening, even though they were so far away.

"'ello Mr. Monster." Ghent said, a resigned smile on his face.

Haures didn't even bother to recognize his existence. Thorek Ghent stood his ground, intent on acting as a barrier between Valdar and Haures. The demon lord approached, the magnitude between the two more evident with every step.

"**Theie skidshs.**" Haures spoke something in his alien language. He was annoyed. Another mortal had stood up to him, and this one was even lower than the rest.

"Sorry, but I can't let ya' through. I'd be a bad friend if'in I did." Ghent said, preparing to strike. Haures struck first though, a diamond hard spike protruding from his arm like another finger. Thorek lifted his sword to block, the blade cracking and screeching as Haures' attack met it. But, against all odds, the sword held together, with the tip of Haures' spike just barely making it through to the other side.

"Heh, that was more than I could ask for." Ghent chuckled. He stepped backwards, pivoting with his whole body, losing the blade from the demon's spike. He brought it backwards and swung, the sword hitting Haures' neck. As soon as it did however, the weakened blade gave way, breaking in two.

Suddenly, Ghent found blood bubbling up in his mouth with every breath. Looking down, he saw the same spike that had just penetrated his blade, plus four more, stabbed through his body. He fell backwards slowly, landing beside Valdar's unconscious body, twitching and gasping for air.

"IDIOT!" Cyrus shouted out. He found strength suddenly, shooting up. He ran towards the ruins of the Violet Citadel again, the rain soothing his burns ever so slightly. Picking up the staff still grasped by the now burnt corpse of Casper, Cyrus sent a wave of dragon fire towards Haures, distracting him again.

"**You live…**"

Cyrus looked down grimly at his enemy. The pain was incredible. Redness threatened to overtake his vision, but even wobbling, the mage stayed his ground. Their battle continued.

Runeweaver Square

Osra Mauer battled with her soldiers through the square. Great demon gates stood everywhere, though many of them had been hit by the chain mage spells, cutting off their supply of power. Still though, a great number of demons continually poured through.

Their advance had stalled. She wondered how the other battles were faring; the Alliance flank, and the Stromwind front. Left and right man and woman fell, but still for some reason they were still behind her, still following her.

Sometimes as she ran past a demon gate, or crashed through an enemy line, Osra grew afraid that no one was with her anymore, so she dared not look back. But every time something bad was about to happen, every time a sword was about to come down on her head or a necromancer fire a spell at her, someone came to the rescue. She didn't see them because she didn't turn back, but they were there, a comforting pillow.

The fight became a blur. Her muscles moved, burning energy. It turned to heat. She panted. Sweat matted her hair against her neck and armor, but still she kept going. That was the difference. Those drive to continue, to survive, and to excel, to love and go on loving.

The undead were cold, rotting, unforgiving. They felt nothing, owned nothing…were nothing. She felt a great dismay at their purpose. What was the point of their existence? What would they do when they conquered the world? What was next?

At least in living there was culture, growth, evolution. The Scouge offered stagnation. The demons offered utter oblivion.

_Why do I think of such things now?_

Osra shouted until her voice was gone. People died around her. She blocked out the thoughts, just focused on running, dodging, getting up, and not letting the flag fall. She was cut on the shoulder, her right arm going limp. Still she got up and fell again. Osra thought she saw a great pillar of light in the distance burst through the thick clouds.

_I might even love you. I know the time isn't right, but I just wanted to say it before—what's about to happen—just in case I don't get to. _

She did love him, from the bottom of her heart. Osra knew she didn't know much about Valdar. He never opened up, but she knew him in a different way. She knew his heart, his actions, his thinking.

_I love him! I don't want him to die! I don't want to die! I want to live with him, be with him, and experience life with him!_

_I trust you! Do a good job. SURVIVE!_

_His order. His command? His wish…his acknowledgment. _

Osra placed the butt of the flagstaff on the ground, using it as a crutch. She stood, wobbling. Soldiers still went by. She had tried to direct them, but everything had fallen into utter chaos, complete disarray.

Osra began to cry. The enemy was everywhere and they were surrounded. Her flag, the one given to her by Valdar, began to burn as demonfire consumed it. She drew her sword again.

_I hope I see him again. At least one more time. _

She wouldn't stop. Not until…

Ruins of the Violet Citadel

There was light. It was dim, but there was light. Valdar blinked. Dirt and soot covered his face. He spat out a loose tooth and rolled to the side, breathing heavily. His body felt like it had just been punched by a massive fist. Aching coursed through him, and his head pounded.

He grasped blindly for the sword, finding it not far from where he lay. He was still disoriented, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead. Clouds of smoke from nearby pyres floated into his face, watering his eyes.

Rolling over, he used all four limbs to weakly stand up. Looking above Valdar noticed that the storm had begun to break. Whoever was summoning it had lost concentration.

Golden, orange, and red rays of light bled through the heavy cloud cover. He felt awful…absolutely horrid. He surmised that he probably have several broken bones and some bad bruises.

Flashes of light, explosions, and wind came from about the arena. He saw Cyrus flitting in and out of reality with his mage spells, fighting desperately against Haures, who was repelling everything the tired mage could muster. Nowhere was Casper to be seen. Had he been killed? Valdar felt worry building up, but killed it before it could get to him.

"Val—dar." A voice whispered. It was Ghent.

He lay on his back, propped up against a broken pillar. Valdar stumbled over to his friend. Thorek was bleeding, and badly. He tried to say something, blood filling his mouth.

"Shh. Just rest here, I'm going to finish it soon." Valdar said with a smile, trying to be strong. "Then we'll get you the best priest in the Alliance, eh? How does that sound? Clean sheets, warm rooms, good food."

"Hah!" Ghent grunted, spewing the blood in his mouth out. "I ain't…gonna get that. I'm sorry Valdar. Unfair that I'm gonna' die here, right at the end." Ghent's eyes rolled into the back of his head in pain.

"Hey, it's alright. You'll be fine, trust me. We've always managed to get out of things together, right? Ever since we enlisted we've always survived. Remember our trainer at the barracks?"

"Horstein?"

"Yeah…he was a bloody insistent bastard, eh?" Valdar could feel tears brimming.

Ghent let out a guttural laugh and groan at the same time. "Aye…that's where we met. After going on furlong and getting into a fight. Been together ever since."

"And we'll keep it up! I went through it pretty bad back then too at the Grace Fields. Was out for weeks!"

Ghent's face contorted to sadness. "Valdar…I'm so sorry about Ellena. She—I should've come with ya'. Instead I sulked off into the woods, tryin' to hide my head from the world. But you taught me to be proud again. If only I'd not been so stupid…if only I'd been there…"

"Hey, you never did anything wrong. We were separated by miles. You didn't even know if I was alive, remember? If it's anyone's fault, its mine."

"Don't be so hard on yar'self—" Ghent bent over, blood rushing from under his armor. "After all, life's lived once. Do it without regrets. Let those regrets go…don't be like me."

Valdar grabbed under Ghent's shoulders, attempting to move him. Only then did he see the grevious wounds that completely penetrated the soldier's body; five in total. Even the pillar behind him was soaked in the red life-sustaining liquid.

_Damn it. _

Valdar fell next to Ghent. He held the soldier's head in his arms and lap to prevent it from smacking on the ground.

"I done many bad things in my life, Valdar. But like ta' think I did some good, too."

"Yeah…"

_Despair. _

"You did well, Thorek. No, you did great."

"Wish I had a bottle." Thorek whispered, the pain evident in his voice. The two waited in silence for a moment.

"It's quiet now. This is nice…"

Thorek's body began to loosen up and sag. His breathing became shallow. Sunlight from the breaking clouds shone upon the two in the midst of the battle.

Valdar held onto Thorek's lifeless body for but a few seconds longer, gently placing his friend on the ground. He found his sword and picked it up, clenching it so tightly his hand started to become numb. As images of their friendship flashed before Valdar he felt like he was being sucked downward.

_The world has become a black hole. It is filled with cruelty, sorrow, and pain. This place is a factory for destruction and horror and evil._ Valdar's clenched hand began to bleed as the metal cut into his skin.

_Is it even worth fighting for? This will always be the story. Why should I swing this sword again? I should just go along with the flow. It's easier…_

In his mind he was in a world of blackness, surrounded by even darker waters. It was an unthinkably large ocean.

**Do you want die fighting fate, or live bowing to it? **A voice echoed off the far off barriers of that space.

Valdar began to feel something different growing within him.

_Neither. _He found himself answering. He was unsure, but he felt something, like an answer brimming at the back of his mind. There was an answer to the dilemma…

**Why? **Silence.

**Why? **

Valdar, feeling pressed, let go of his cautious thoughts, letting pure instinct and mindless drive answer for him.

_I want victory!_

Valdar felt a newfound strength in himself. It didn't matter how, but he wanted to win. He turned to the titanic battle between Haures and Cyrus, slowly walking towards the two combatants. Cyrus was barely keeping up, firing off random shots to ward off Haures. It was obvious he was being played with.

Cyrus noticed him awakening and blinked over to his location.

"Valdar Justax…only that blade can harm him…you must do what we planned!" he exclaimed. Valdar barely noticed the voice. "He's already killed Casper! I cannot hold him off any longer!"

_Father…_

_My brothers…_

_Ellena…_

_All of my soldiers, like my newfound family…_

_Osra…_

_Thorek…_

_I've found my answer. I thought it was revenge. I thought that I could bring justice with that revenge, but the only justice this world has ever known lies beyond the reach of a single man. _

_Revenge is personal. Justice is for society. Revenge is petty. Justice neglects the individual and minority._

_I will fight for what is in between. I will do this for you all. You all deserved better. I will create a personal justice, one which will protect people like you all for the years to come and more! _

"Stand back, Cyrus. Rest yourself for a moment. I know what I must do." Valdar said. The sword's hilt began to emit steam once again, glowing until it was too bright to look at. A humming sound buzzed from the tip, like it was vibrating faster than the eye could even see. He let himself go, instinct taking the reins.

Valdar's eyes too began to light up with the same gleam of the blade, his body being engulfed in _Kaldaei_'s aura.

"You…know how to use it?" Cyrus stammered. The Titan-blade's powers had been a mystery even Dragias hadn't been able to fully unlock. No one had…until now.

Had it been his emotions that activated it? Was it some kind of divine revelation?

Valdar took a stance he had learned long ago. It had been the first one he was taught by his father when he had become a man. He could feel the power of the weapon in the air around him like electricity. It was overpowering and astounding.

Cyrus looked on, wide eyed. Somehow Valdar had managed to unlock the potential of the sword. Its power began to coalesce around the human's body, forming an opaque aura that looked vaguely like a suit of armor.

Ruins of the Violet Citadel

Haures stood for a moment, aghast. He knew full well that it was _Kaldaei_, an artifact of the Titans themselves that was the only true weapon that could be used against him. In fact, the demon lord could still feel the stinging blows that had been dealt against him by both Dragias and this same man. He wouldn't let the same thing happen again.

Haures exploded forward, a trail of dust flying up in swirls in his trail. Before Cyrus could even move his eyeballs, the demon had ended up right beside the two mortals, his morphing arm in the shape of a vicious serrated edge.

He brought it toward Valdar with the speed of lightning. The molecule-thin edge of his weapon was suddenly stopped and redirected in a flying shower of green sparks. Valdar countered faster than any human possibly could, cleanly slicing off Haures' attacking arm.

The demon recoiled in surprise while black blood spewed and splashed on the ground. Valdar's face was passive, almost possessed. As he moved, Cyrus noticed some subtle differences in the human's movement on top of the fact that his speed had increased a thousand fold.

Without even giving Haures time to recover, Valdar jumped forward, so fast that fleeting afterimages of his movement were left behind. Cyrus watched the spectacle, unbelieving.

Haures screamed in frustration, his voice shaking the ground like an earthquake. It was the third time that damnable blade had hurt him. Nothing in ten thousand years had done such a thing.

The two began a dance which echoed throughout the ruins of Dalaran. Their clash was one of titans. Back and forth, beyond simple measures of parry and dodge and attack, they fought.

"**Are you even conscious, human? Has that power clouded your mind?**" Haures asked. Valdar swayed back and forth, like an intoxicated person. Blood dripped from his hands. His muscles and flesh had been torn at the high speed, his body unable to handle such movements.

"I want to hurt you. I want to see your fear!" He said monotonously.

The sword began to absorb its surroundings, stone and metal ripping from its resting place and flying into the swirling heat of the blade. Haures backed up, cautious, his arm growing back. He began to summon magic, the dying storm's power being funneled into his body. Electricity crackled around him.

"**With that weapon at your side, I won't underestimate you. I acknowledge your threat.**" The demon spoke. His eyes fizzled with amethyst light, body burning with unnatural energy.

With a heaving of his arms, the massive, fallen Violet Citadel tower began to rise into the air, spinning to face Valdar. The massive skyscraper blocked out the rays of sun, loose rubble and blocks of stone falling from its gutted interior. It rose to an incredible height, hundreds of feet into the air.

"**Now die…**"

The skyscraper flew towards Valdar top-first, accelerating as it moved downwards. The human brought up _Kaldaei. _With the power of the Titan's relic, Valdar cut through the tip of the building, the magical buildup in the sword releasing and blazing outwards, slicing the entire building in half. The backfire however threw Valdar's body backwards, both his arms dislocating and shoulder blade's breaking.

"**What—how!?**" Haures exclaimed, incredulous. No mortal should have been able to do that, save the most powerful in magic…indeed, this being was something else. When he had first seen him, he'd noticed how the lines of fate converged around him strangely.

As an Augur, Haures had been gifted with the ability to read the Fates, just as Dragias had. One could see the pathways that channeled through another, but could never tell which one was the thread most likely to be chosen. When the Scourge had attacked that one Nether-forsaken place in the country called Stromgarde, when he'd first seen this Valdar, he'd noticed the immense amount of Fates that flowed through him.

Indeed he was dangerous. To fully defeat a Vessel of the Titans, he needed more power; more strength. Haures began to open up more pathways through to the Nether. He would need his full power to take Karazhan.

As the energies of the Nether flowed into him, he became distracted. From the rubble, the human emerged, and using his incredible speed blitzed forward, slicing Haures nearly in half. The demon fell to the ground, but not before loosing a malefic spell. The ball of shadowy flame caught the human in the back, but his magic armor took the brunt of the blow. Still though, he was thrown forward, blood spewing from beneath the human's frame.

"**Even with that power—**" Haures stood, throwing an arm back that was charged with frost magic. He tossed the ball of icy death forward. The spell ricocheted off of the sword's armor, but set Valdar off balance.

"**—you are still—**" He blinked forward before Valdar had a chance to recover.

"—**ONLY HUMAN**." With both his arms morphed into deadly weapons, he came down on Valdar, stabbing him twice, once in the arm, and the other time through the right side of his chest.

The human staggered again under the blows, knees buckling. He seemed to awaken from his possessed state, shaking his head. He hadn't even realized what had happened the past few moments, and why he was now gravely wounded.

He looked up to see his opponent. His face grew from surprised to angry.

"Try pissed!" He brought up his left arm which still grasped the sword, slicing off Haures' arm that was stabbing through his chest. Haures couldn't believe it. The human was bleeding from head to toe, broken, and shouldn't have been able to physically move. How…he'd analyzed everything according to how it should be but still…

"**Very well, an eye for an eye!**" Haures tugged back on his remaining arm, tearing Valdar's stabbed appendage straight out of its socket in a sickening rip. Blood spewed from the wound and Valdar screamed out.

_So you do feel pain. Good. _

Ruins of the Violet Citadel

Valdar watched as his left arm was torn from his body. He screamed more in surprise and shock than pain. The sword was dulling everything out. He could feel its power working through his body, reducing the bleeding, minimizing the damage as best it could. Still though…

Valdar knew that the end was close. He'd lost far too much blood, suffered far too many injuries. Blackness began to close in on his vision. Still though…

Haures stood still as he fell backwards, unable to cope with the damage anymore. The weapon was hurting him just as much as his own opponent. To sacrifice his body in order to fight such a monster was his only choice…still though…

_Let me keep going! _

His body shouted for him to stop; to close his eyes. It wanted to sleep. His mind rebelled. With defiant eyes, he still looked up towards Haures.

_LET ME FIGHT!_

The demon bent over, picking up Valdar by the neck. The broken soldier still held tight to his weapon. It had begun to lose its luster, the power seeping out faster than it was being replaced.

_IT'S RIGHT HERE!!!_

Haures began to squeeze. Valdar felt his neck begin to creak. It would crack in a matter of moments. Everything would happen now. With the last of his strength, cloudy in the mind, he brought up _Kaldaei, _stabbing it forward into Haures' solar plexus. The demon looked down. His body had frozen, just as it had before. His grip on Valdar's neck disappeared. The soldier fell towards the ground, landing ungracefully on his feet, the sword hilt the only thing keeping him up properly.

"**This—won't stop me.**"

"I think…this time…it will." Valdar wheezed. He put his left foot on the demon and yanked the sword out of his body in one smooth motion, lifting it above his head.

"**Even if you destroy this body, my spirit will live on! This is but an avatar! You cannot truly kill me, mortal!**" Haures yelled out as the sword began to glow again.

"No…not me…" Valdar smiled. "…but I know who will…"

"**Kel'thuzad! Aid me!**" Haures' voice roared. Valdar noticed that behind them, across the river Averass, a great horde of Scourge had gathered. Thousands…tens of thousands, all prepared to cross the river.

Dalaran Ruins

Rhonin panted for air. He bled from several gashes, but still managed to somehow eek out his survival against Kel'thuzad. The two had been battling for many long minutes now, and Rhonin had begun to slow. He was fatigued.

Suddenly, to his horror, he noticed behind the banks of the river Averass where the Dogs of War had landed. There had gathered a massive Scourge army, reinforcements for the battle. If they crossed the river, then all would be lost.

There must've been thousands and thousands of them. Their lines stretched far off into the distance, beyond his reckoning. Rhonin felt his hopes begin to fade and diminish. It was over…despair climbed into his heart.

He was still not strong enough to protect Vereesa and their child…after all his training, all his studies, and all the experience. It had all amounted to nothing against this untouchable foe.

"**Kel'thuzad! Aid me!**" a terrifying voice commanded. Its origin baffled Rhonin, but the mage knew it was demon. He looked towards the lich.

For a long while, Kel'thuzad stared at the direction of the voice. His skeletal face showed no reaction, but Rhonin could have sworn that it would have been smiling.

"No, Haures. I think the Scourge will depart for now. Best of luck to you, demon." Kel'thuzad abruptly turned face and headed off towards the river Averass where his legions awaited.

"Wait! What about our fight!?" Rhonin shouted out.

"You are powerful, young mage, but not powerful enough. Seek me out when you have the strength, if you dare." Kel'thuzad spoke without turning about. Rhonin, exhausted, collapsed.

The Scourge around the battlefield began to break off combat and mindlessly walk towards the river. They were abandoning the battle.

"**Kel'thuzad!**" The demon's voice rang out one last time. It was mixed with betrayal, anger, and disgust.

Rhonin could not imagine what was going on. The Scourge were running when they had just gained the upper hand? Suddenly, the sky above the Violet Citadel erupted into blue energy.

Ruins of the Violet Citadel

_Everyone, this is the end. It will be finished now. _

Valdar let the sword come down. For Haures it was a slow motion, but still suffering from the effects of _Kaldaei, _he could not move. The human had pulled a fast one on him.

The sword sliced cleanly through Haures' neck, but stopped halfway through. With the sword's full strength manifested by his sheer will, Valdar swung the sword again. As it finished its cut, the air around Haures began to warp and rip.

Reality began to tear, the holes coming together in the sky. Like a great blue eye in the sky, a portal to the Nether opened. Haures' body and head began to disintegrate, melting away into dust as the great hole opened. The sword _Kaldaei_ also began to tear apart, melting into the great portal, leaving no trace of itself.

Around the entire battlefield, everyone saw what was happening. Too tired to chase after the retreating Scourge, they began to cheer or collapse. Few had survived the battle, but those few now bore witness to a once in a millennium spectacle, the greatest fireworks of their lives. Thousands of faces looked up.

With an earth rending scream, Haures was dragged back into the hell from whence he had come. Around Dalaran the demons went berserk, ripping, maiming, and running terrified as their leader disappeared. With a final flash of light, the entire sky lit up, the great storm clouds evaporating instantly, leaving a blood red setting sun in their wake, shining upon the apocalyptic scene of the battle.

As Haures' avatar and spirit were sucked back into the Nether, Valdar too, collapsed to the ground. His energy was spent, his body torn and broken. Cyrus rushed to his side, quickly speaking things he could no longer understand. The world was wavy, and his hearing had dulled.

_So this is it…at last…_

Cyrus knelt over him, trying to bandage his arm and wounds up with strips of cloth. He even seemed to apply some holy magic to stop the bleeding. Valdar couldn't see his face. It seemed to melt into shadow.

Valdar smiled inside. He felt content and satisfied. Everything that had led to this day rushed past him.

_It was a bright day. He'd been a newly minted knight_. _Uther the Lightbringer! The great hero of the Second War, here! Valdar's mind raced at the possibilities, knowing that everything he as a scout and lieutenant of the Light Cavalry Division did was to be the eyes and ears of the army._

_He'd then seen his first taste of action; orcs ripping through defenseless villagers like wet tissue. "If I am to be a soldier of Lordaeron, I must prepare my mind for such things" Valdar thought quietly to himself as he led his group back through a small patch of trees to the south of the town._

_He was fighting the undead now, following Prince Arthas into battle. _With _trembling hands_ _he continued to guide the horse with the company_. _In an instant, a sudden shower of arrows fell upon the knights. Valdar instantly recognized the face of his friend Thorek Ghent as his helmet slid off his head, with a great shaft protruding from his eye visor. The man was alive, but his temple had been slit deeply._

_Suddenly, a great fear tore through him. He could be next? The fear, the terror, so overwhelming as he stared into the voided eyes of the lumbering corpses being directed by their masters. Such horror that he felt now…nothing was worth this, or so it seemed! Indeed he would have turned the horse around and ridden for life if he could, but he was…frozen. "Shall I be called a coward?" he whispered silently, losing his voice in the wind._

_Weeks passed and he hardened. The fighting began to erupt everywhere. _

"_We were about to break ourselves here. General Volsung had already deployed most of the reserve rearguard and was about to blow the horn for retreat. But then we saw you and your forces coming in from the west atop the hill that our men couldn't master, slaying all the undead in your way without stopping. Very well done, soldier" Claudius continued "Your promotion shall be well deserved, Lieutenant -excuse me, Captain"_

_He couldn't believe his ears. "Ca-captain? Sire, that's a brevet promotion!" Valdar blurted out._

"_A long time in the coming, young one" Claudius said, beginning to turn his back. "I expect you to be at the next Officer's Meeting for the division, Captain."_

_That had been the proudest day in his life to date. _

_"King Terenas has been killed" the words came from Knecht Claudius' mouth. That day had changed everything. Months had passed since his promotion, and the world seemed to go to hell. _

_War…endless war…and then a ray of light. _

_"So you are awake, milord Captain" the woman said._

_Valdar jolted upwards, looking about. He was not in the field hospital. In fact, it looked more like a farm._

"_Where are my men!? What happened to the battle?" he exclaimed quickly._

"_The battle…" the woman trailed off. She seemed young, probably a little younger than himself. "For now your battle is over. You're lucky to be alive, Captain"_

_"I see…thank you, ma'am. I owe you my life, most likely" Valdar said courteously._

"_It was nothing, Captain. I hate to see suffering and death, two things that are far too common in our lands these days."_

"_Indeed. You may call me Valdar, if I am not being impolite."_

"_Very well then, Valdar. My name is Ellena, pleased to meet you."_

_He heard of his brothers deaths. Ellena and he ran as the fighting closed in on them, taking refuge in the forest with others. An old woman told him his shadowy fate. The refugees made it to safety eventually, near the end of winter; Castle Perres._

"_I __will __come back. It's a promise, on my honor as a knight and the man who loves you." Valdar stood and helped Ellena to her feet. Ellena giggled for a moment, pulling up her wiping away the tears with a sleeve._

"_Then I'll wait. I'll wait until your return." She replied._

"_Take this. My father gave it to me. It's the sigil of my family." Valdar loosened a thin band of silver from his finger and placed it in Ellena's hand. As she took it, he bent down and gave her hand a kiss. The two gazed into each other's eyes for a moment before Valdar abruptly turned away, his cloak fluttering. As the darkness began to overtake the last of the colorful clouds, Valdar walked away, leaving Ellena on the hill alone._

_Days passed slowly, but men began to follow him. Soon, they had an army. _

"_Let loose the dogs of war, and I will fight with every fiber of my might to live and win!" Valdar pulled his bastard sword from its sheathe and pushed through the thicket of men towards the sounds of the coming demons._

_A silence fell over the camp. As Valdar stalked off he heard a voice shout._

"_To arms! You heard the Colonel Commander. Rise up, you Dogs of War! Show these demons they trifled with the wrong men!"_

_Their first battle came and went. Valdar carried with him the pain of those whom had died from his plans. If only he'd lead them properly, no one would have to have died._

_Another death occurred then. It was his light, the beams of warmth that had kept him fighting until now. Ellena…_

"_You know…" he suddenly said in a soft tone. "I've seen lots of eyes like that before." Valdar looked up at him, lids half closed. "I knew that there was something here that you desperately wanted to get back to."_

"_My children, the four of them, died in an attack by the orcs on our home town when I was out taking my crops to Wallaceburg." Rogir said, his face hinting at the long buried sadness in his heart._

"_I joined the army because I want to stop that kind of pain happening where I can. I know that I'm not a god, and that I can't prevent it. It's human nature, for people to die and leave their loved ones behind. The ones who remain carry that feeling with them the rest of their lives, but_, _if we can carry that feeling, it means that that person really did mean something to us; proof that they existed and made a difference in our lives, no matter how small. In the end, a lot of the pain that we carry in the memories of those loved ones is that they will be forgotten. That things we go on as if they never existed, or that we could have done things differently to arrive at better outcomes."_

"_But the thing is, we __can't __change the past. It makes us who we are. So no matter how you look at it, whatever happened happened for a reason."_

"_I left her here so I could go fight. The reason I held the Alteran Pass is because of her. When I strayed too far from that goal and tried to leave, the Scourge came and killed her." Valdar said, his voice hoarse and cracking._

"_Look, Valdar, I know the pain you're going through. We all know it; every one of us in this army. Everyone in the world knows. If they don't, then they will soon enough. This woman's death wasn't in vain. Her life helped shape yours. You went to the Alteran Pass to defend her, and so you created the Dogs of War and gave hope to thousands."_

"_It's my fault she's gone." Valdar whispered. His world had come crashing down, and he felt the tears welling up again as he stared at the silver ring._

"_You can blame yourself all you want, but it won't bring her back."_

"_Just leave me be. I've failed. There's nothing left to do anymore. I never even got to say goodbye."_

_Rogir sighed. "Sooner or later you need to stand up. Not just for you, but for her as well, and them too." The older man waved his arms out in front of him, gesturing to the army. "More people than you think possible depend on you. They all carry the same feeling of loss."_

_Valdar felt some life returning to him. Holding back a sob, he somehow made it to his knees._

"_If you don't get up now, it was all for nothing. If you don't get up, Valdar, she died for a nothing. If you can't rise above, they can't succeed. If you won't rise, then this pain will remain forever. Her death will be in vain. Don't let that pain shape you. Accept it, and grow stronger for it. Shape that pain into your cause. Mold it, bring it to bear, and shout it out for all to hear. It's your path, Valdar! Stand up!" Rogir held out his hand._

_Valdar reached out and grasped it._

_Days melted into weeks, and weeks into months. He'd found new purpose, fought with his friends, continued to live. The past was so distant now, but he remembered finding that sword; it opened up the feelings buried in his heart. It gave him the strength to do what had to be done. _

_It had all lead up to this. _

Another face appeared above him. It was a woman. She was crying, sobbing on his bloodied chest. Valdar recognized the distant face; it was Osra.

"_I…I might even love you. I know the time isn't right, but I just wanted to say it before—what's about to happen—just in case I don't get to."_

"Please don't go! Please!" She cried out. Cyrus stood by, a painful look on his face.

"I'm sorry, Osra." Valdar said weakly. Tears dropped onto his face. "You can still live. I—let you down, but…keep moving. I learned that. The future can really hold anything."

"Valdar…" Cyrus spoke.

"I can't be more…happy with the way things…turned out…Cyrus. We did it. We really did it." Valdar felt the end nearing, like a black wall.

"I'm—going home." He said, trying to raise his hand to the sun. Cyrus leant him a helping hand, raising him to a sitting position. Osra clasped his hand, allowing him to grasp the warmth from the ball of light.

Valdar felt everything coming back, all of it fitting together. The edges of his vision blurred, with tears of death he knew not. The sun remained until the end.

_I understand now…it really was so simple. _His body fell limp as his life passed, his soul and spirit departing from its mortal ship. Osra sobbed, and Cyrus beheld the man he held up.

"The world has lost a great man…but may his memory live on in us all." Cyrus said softly, letting Valdar's body down to rest at last, on this, his final battlefield. The sun had set, and the battle ended.

(Author's Note: Hey everyone! I know the chapter was a bit later than the original time that I'd expected to have it up by, however, it ended up being about 4-5 times longer than an average chapter! Indeed this was the longest, and in some cases, the most painful chapter I've written. In total, it ended up being 21,000 + words.

I know a lot of plotlines have yet to be closed on what I call the "Eastern Theater" of the story, but rest assured, I will tie everything up by the end. Hope to see you all soon, read, review, and stay safe over the summer!

-Omegatrooper)

29


	43. Chapter 42: Eternity's Twilight

**Chapter 43: Eternity's Twilight **

_As the Second Battle of Dalaran concluded, an uneasy and weary peace fell upon the Eastern Kingdoms. Both sides had lost the will to fight after the savage bloodshed upon the plains of the Casted Vale and the ruins of the once great mage-city. _

_In Kalimdor the fires of war however still raged on, burning brighter than ever. Now banded together, the Mortal Armies of the world prepared for their final stand. Days passed by, allowing all to gather their full strengths. The last, greatest battle was about to begin._

Jaina blinked through the dark, damp forest in brief eruptions of light. As she moved wind followed her, the disturbances and displacements in the air she created. Thirty four, thirty five, thirty six…this was the most she'd ever used the blink spell. She wiped the glistening sweat from her brow.

The blonde haired sorceress panted heavily, stopping for a moment. They were coming. The sounds of the magic sniffing demon hounds echoed through the spaces in between the trees, terrifying all who might hear them.

Behind them was something far worse though, Jaina knew. She felt true horror rising up from within her soul as well. A sound, something like a deep, rumbling thunder, began to shake the very ground beneath her feet. Jaina shook her head.

"Stay focused! Stay focused!!" She chided herself. With little sleep, the exhausting marches, and constant fighting, not to mention her ever-straying thoughts back home and to Dalaran, it was hard to concentrate these days. She wanted to just find a soft bed with warm, clean sheets, crawl up inside, and dream about her studies, family, and friends. Those thoughts had been in her mind for what seemed like years now.

"No! Move!" She encouraged herself. Leaning against a tree, Jaina prepared to blink yet again. They were coming.

Base of Mount Hyjal, Alliance Staging Point, Late Morning

This portion of Ashenvale was, like the rest, covered in thick wood. However, unlike the lowlands of the forest, mountains and large, humped, rolling hills punctuated the land gently at first, and then more and more jagged until Hyjal itself came into view.

The World Tree, Nordrassil as the night elves called it, atop Hyjal, was visible for leagues in all directions. The massive tree stretched thousands of feet into the air, setting its umbrella of branches and countless millions of leaves through the sky. Still, the elves had refused to speak of the tree, instead only giving it longing glances when it was mentioned by the awestruck outlanders.

The beautiful landscape was about to be marred by war however. From all directions for the past few days the combatants had streamed in. The Sentinel bases at the peak had been bolstered by the remnants of their defeated and ragged army as well as the power of the druids. The Alliance and Horde too had come with all their might, leaving behind their civilians in places far off away from the conflict. The latecomers set up near the base of the mountain, preparing to defend it to the last.

Nearby to their meeting place the humans and their allies had set up base camp, hastily constructing stone barriers and wooden palisades, digging trenches. They were all of them apprehensive. Each and every soldier knew what was about to come.

Not far above them up several steep, rocky inclines was the Horde's encampment. Their forces were flung around the mountain in a wide semi-circle, by far having the most numbers out of the Mortal Armies. The sounds and smells of the orcish Horde pervaded the air, even down here a thousand feet below their positions.

"The Horde will hold these hellspawn until the mountain crumbles. Even the demons would be hard pressed to break us here!" The orcish Warchief Thrall grunted. He gazed upon the incredible slopes of Mount Hyjal.

"While what you say may be true, the demons are limitless, brutal, chaotic, and more powerful than anything we could ever imagine." Chamberlain Kristoff, representative of the Lady Jaina Proudmoore, spoke.

"Indeed they are, but such things cause fear not among brave orcs, tauren, or trolls. The only fear we have is of humiliation and disgrace, and that is there is our strength." Thrall said, thumping his chest and beating the Doomhammer upon the ground.

Kristoff eyed the orc coldly. He obviously didn't approve of siding with the Horde. He even seemed galled that orcs would dare speak Common, but it seemed his loyalty was enough to put aside his indifferences…for the moment at least.

The most seething seemed to come from the night elf priestess however. Robed in pure white silk, barefoot, and with an avalanche of midnight blue hair cascading from her head, all in the council were quieted by the beauty when she spoke, and cringed when he raged, despite their differences in race.

"We will need such bravery today, outlander. I hope your people prove themselves as much as you boast." Tyrande said. Next to her stood her consort, the massive arch-druid, Furion Stormrage. Both Kristoff and Thrall were still getting used to the night elf speech. Though they understood not the words that came out of their mouths, a second voice, this one quite understandable, streamed into their minds by some kind of spell that the purple-skinned elves had erected.

"Indeed we—"

The male elf was suddenly interrupted as glowing blue runes melted into form from the grass below their feet. Suddenly, in a flash of white light, Jaina Proudmoore stood in their midst. Dust and smoke came with her as she almost fell to the ground, barely regaining her sense of balance.

"I'm sorry I'm late!" Jaina exclaimed, stumbling over her words, voice cracking. "It-its just as we feared. Archimonde and his doom guard are making their way to the summit. He'll be here any moment!"

The arch-druid suddenly looked as alert as the edge of a knife. He turned to face Nordrassil and spoke, his deep bass voice shaking the chest cavities of those around him.

"Ten thousand years ago we night elves defeated the Burning Legion. Though the rest of the world was shattered, we were left to live out our immortal lives in peace, bound to the World Tree." The images of the past fluttered through Furion's mind.

"We are its protectors, and through it we were granted immortality and power over nature. Now, at last it is time we give that power back." He said strongly, utterly sure in his words.

"You realize that we will age as these mortals do. Our powers over nature will wane over time." Tyrande whispered in Darnassian, giving Furion a concerned look.

"If pride gives us pause, my love, then perhaps we have lived long enough." Furion replied gently. He turned back to the night elves newfound allies.

Taking a deep breath, Furion summoned the spirits of the forest to aid his message. The spirits carried his voice across the mountain, so that every orc, troll, tauren, human, dwarf, night elf, high elf, and more would hear him.

"**To arms my brethren! To arms brave allies from all corners of the world! Twilight falls and the Enemy awaits!" **

As the voice rang in their ears, all eyes looked up. It was time.

"I will proceed to the summit and prepare our defenses there. Whatever comes my love, remember, our bond is eternal." Furion embraced Tyrande. As he let go, she forcefully pulled the druid back, giving him a long kiss goodbye. As their lips parted, she turned back to Kristoff, Thrall, and Jaina.

"If we can truly work together and support each other, Thrall and I can delay Archimonde's ascent. My forces cover the base of the mountain, and Thrall's the middle. With your help, we can hold each of the crucial passes and plateaus."

"Your plan is a bold one girl. You are willing to sacrifice yourselves to buy us the time we need?" Tyrande asked, surprised.

Both Thrall and Jaina looked at her with the same eyes: stony, set, and determined. They both nodded.

Tyrande was taken aback. "Perhaps…perhaps I have misjudged you outlanders. May Elune shine upon you."

"May the Light be with you." Jaina returned.

"LOK-TAR OGAR!" Thrall bared his serrated teeth, and especially his great tusks. The three parted ways, the sounds of horns, battle, and doom upon them.

Demons soared, guns roared.

Across the land Nature shuddered, the voices of the spirits muttered.

Hell and heaven intertwined, purgatory unleashing its punishments upon its chambered souls.

Battle was joined and an eternal age was ending.

Mount Hyjal Summit, Minutes Later

Furion Stormrage flew over the land with the powerful wings of a stormcrow, rising effortlessly with the new day's thermals. Below the landscape unfolded like a panoramic painting. Far off to the north, past the mountain, he could glimpse the ever-snowy expanses of the Winterspring highlands. With eyes more powerful than any humanoid's he could also see to the distant south the thinning of the trees, where Ashenvale began to end.

Below him orcs, elves, and humans milled about. Near the base of the mountain now a great cloud of smoke and ash rose, signaling the position of the Burning Legion. The dark clouds followed them everywhere. From the sky now great comets and asteroids began to fall, crashing into the human lines with great explosions, setting the wood alight with their wicked fire.

There was but one viable way to reach the summit, and that was through a series of narrow passes that led to great plateaus. The rest of the mountain was unassailably high and jagged. These portions of the Hyjal were so thickly encrusted with defensive spells that not even Furion himself had ever dared to make his way through them.

The encircling Legion was now finding that out. Explosions, armies of treants, and far more horrible things met whatever attempted to make their way up those slopes. However, the Legion, with its infinite numbers, would soon find that the only way up was through the forces of the humans and orcs.

Furion braced himself. The Legion had come at last, after 10,000 years to finish their black work. Once before the night elves had stopped them, but at unimaginable loss. The world itself was today scarred by those events. It had been the night elves fault that the Legion had come in the first place however, and now it was time for them to fully repay the world.

He could see the past now, the ancient elven civilizations of the elder days. The years passed like a gust of wind, he'd met Tyrande, fought both with and against Illidan, the long, numb slumbers. Furion soared towards the ground with the speed of a bullet. Nordrassil's roots grew as he approached, the massive tree sitting in the forested basin of a long extinct volcano.

One scene was as vivid to him now as always. He saw the figures moving; Illidan, his twin, cast in shackles and beaten to the ground. He had just revived the damnable Well of Eternity by pouring vials of the previous lake's liquid into this one. The new Well blazed blue.

Cenarius was present, as were three of the dragonflight leaders, the Aspects Nozdormu the Timeless One, Alexstrasza the Life-Binder, and Ysera the Dreamer. Dozens of night elves, both the low and highborne, were present.

There was a trial. Illidan was to be cast into darkness forever. Then the Aspects gathered to put to an end the problem of the Well. A ceremony was begun. They would plant a tree. Not just any tree; it would be THE tree. The Aspects produced a seed.

The massive Alexstrasza explained. "_**Taken from G'Hanir, the Mother Tree, this seedling will raise a new tree, one which will bind the world, mend in time its suffering, and bring it the balance we could not."**_

The great red waited until Nozdormu clawed at the earth upon a small isle in the middle of the Lake. She rested the seedling in the trench, and Ysera the Dreamer covered it in dirt.

He and Tyrande held hands as they watched the spectacle.

"_**To the night elves, as long as this Tree stands, I grant strength and health**_." Alexstrasza spoke.

"_**Within this Tree is the promise of continued immortality to the night elves, so that the years will not touch them, and they may learn evermore**_." Nozdormu proclaimed.

Next came Ysera, who explained that the night elves would be given the gift of the Dream for their efforts in vanquishing the Legion. She promised that those who would follow her and her kin in their path amongst the Emerald Dream would be able to gain the strength of both the Waking and Dreaming worlds, and that their power would guide Kalimdor for as long as they stood by their word.

As the dragons leapt into the air with great gusts of wind, each pouring their own power into the seedling, a small tree began to sprout, its roots spreading like vines. As the days went on, it grew greater and greater, becoming Nordrassil the World Tree. It was the night elves greatest prize and bane.

The Tree stood before Furion as it always had, watching over him. He made his way after landing to a silent glade, far away from the battle. Amidst the great statues of the ancient demi-gods Furion chanted a spell. From the earth blocks of iron shot up. They were instantly covered by writhing ivy and a purple light.

As they gateway solidified the trees on either side grew thick and still, as if a wall. Above the gate, arching all the way up to the tiptop of the World Tree, and all the way back down to the other side of the great crater at the summit of Hyjal, a semi-translucent shield appeared.

Furion took a deep breath. This would be the trap. Now it all depended on how much time the armies of the Azeroth could grant him.

Ashenvale Forest

Archimonde moved through a sea of unnatural husks. These 'bodies' contained the ego of the creatures of the Nether, whether they were the Damno, mortals whom had fallen to demonic corruption, the Irritus, creatures from the Great Dark Beyond brought into the fold of the Legion, or the Corpus, the oldest disciples of Sargeras.

Of these, Archimonde was one of the oldest of the Corpus, being a Second-In-Tier of the Legion and a Kabbal of a massive portion of the Legion. After Sargeras had been tricked into the Narrow, the world between world's, and unable to return, Archimonde and Kil'jaeden, his two greatest disciples, took up the mantle of leadership. Later came Haures, a powerful contender. These three brought the Legion from chaos, to lawful chaos. They had given the Legion a direction, but constantly chafed.

Now at long last the equilibrium was broken. Archimonde could sense the death of Haures. The cretin had been felled by mortals. It was disgusting and humorous at the same time. Never before had such a slight been suffered by the Legion, though to see a rival fall was a beautiful thing.

The ancient demon looked over the burning remnants of northern Ashenvale Forest. What had not been incinerated was corrupted, the trees twisting and writhing, the moaning faces in their bark echoing their pain and despair.

The night elves had been unable to mount an effective defense against the Legion. They were as pathetic as the humans across the sea. It was almost boring. He'd razed their pitiful cities with more than ease. Their armies, long since weakened by the poison of peace, were wiped away like leftovers off a plate.

_**Stormrage still exists, as does the Priestess of Elune. As long as they are alive, Kalimdor breathes. **_

The arch-demon realized that despite all his efforts, the night elves continued to survive like cockroaches. They crawled out from the woodworks to strike in the night and then disappear into their forests.

Archimonde burned with the thought of that long ago war. The only time he'd tasted defeat had been then, as he was sucked back into the Nether through the Well of Eternity's portals.

Stormrage had been behind the Legion's humiliation before. He was the greatest leader and weapon of the night elves. 10,000 years ago he'd even been able to stand up to Mannaroth and Archimonde himself, fighting them in an epic duel that wiped out the landscape around them.

This time it would be different.

He would own the Waters now. He glanced upwards. The great tree Nordrassil stood like a feeble shield in the sky. It was Nordrassil, and the powers of the Well of Eternity that served as an anchor for the Legion in this world, lest they be sucked back into the Nether through their own portals. Archimonde let an abhorrent grin come across his face. Soon the wait would be over. He would take Sargeras' place.

Analyzing what the streams of magic that ran through the world told, he could tell that both the human refugees from Lordaeron and Mannaroth's orcs had both set up camp around Mount Hyjal. They sought to beat them back? Preposterous. They wanted to live? They would soon not want to. They wished to defeat the Legion? IMPOSSIBLE.

"**Hear me night elves! The time for reckoning has come!**" The eredar shouted out. Before him the trees bent backwards as his voice smashed through the air.

Base of Mount Hyjal, Alliance Defensive Perimeter

Following the not-so-distant sound of the oncoming Enemy was a wave of bird calls and flaps. Cicadas and other insects ceased their chirping as the roaring and black plumes neared. Comets fell from the sky into the forest abyss, shaking the ground.

Styrmir Velbjörn, son of Hagni, clutched his smoothbore, wooden stocked, double barrel blue cobalt blunderbuss. The large caliber barrel glistened in the sun, newly oiled. He eyed the incredible gun, finding something beautiful and new about it every time he held it in his burly hands. Its weight was familiar and comforting. That was his 'Thunderpipe', the weapon his great grand-father had crafted during the War of the Three Hammers.

The dwarven Dragonsmoke regiment stood at the ready, all five hundred and thirty two of its members prepping their guns one last time. Styrmir saw Jaina Proudmoore ride across the open field in front of the breastworks on her white mare, gathering the attention of her troops.

"The Legion followed us to this new salvation! Now, we will fight to defend it! Aid me in our endeavor. Let us make a home for ourselves and gain the right to live through the flames of war! We must hold as long as possible! There are no words to explain how important our duty is!" She shouted out. The troops cried out in response. Jaina disappeared from the fields, making her way back into the lines.

_Still a woman of few words, she has grown much since we departed Port Hope's Rise. It will be interesting to see how she'll lead these people if we defeat the Legion. _

Styrmir slowly raised the green hood that flowed from his capelet. The trees in front of the glade began to shake. Slowly, vague humanoid shapes came into being. It was the undead. Their numbers were great, as always. Some things never did change.

The dwarf smiled in anticipation. He was full from the pre-battle breakfast that the dwarves in the troop had thrown. No weakness of stomach would reach him for many good hours. There was a saying that a dwarf on an empty stomach before battle was a greater fool than the mythical Loken himself.

"'Ight laddies! Look's like we'll be shooting some skulls today!" Styrmir shouted out. His brethren shouted in acknowledgement.

"Oi, Lord Velbjörn, I's and mine say tha' who'ver brings the most skulls to the Afterlife gets first pick at the ladies!" someone shouted out.

"Something I'll drink too, Galdir son of Niflev!" Styrmir shouted out, deep laughs emerging from his great Adam's apple.

To the left of him the cannon battery was preparing. "10 degrees up, wind coming from north north-east at slight gusts." The battery-master spoke to his subordinates. The four cannon were loaded.

"Bout that time then, chaps!" Styrmir called out to his own troops. "Lock n' load!"

Hundreds of hands moved at the same time, pouring black gunpowder through a small funnel that hung at their belts into the barrel, then stuffed it down along with several mini-balls with the long rods that hung under the guns.

The cannon fired; dozens of them. Their balls exploded into the dirt, bouncing, rolling, splintering, destroying uncountable numbers of the enemy. As they did however, more and more undead and demons filled the empty spaces so that a vast mat of swarming hell lay before them.

"Aim!"

Five hundred and thirty two guns were brought up, rested on a dirt embankment that had been dug out earlier in the morning. The enemy masses, now crushing even the trees in their way, completely encircled the mountain. Styrmir could see the long ring of undead and demons as far away as the horizon on the risen plateau that the Alliance had decided to defend. Time passed in heartbeats.

Human swordsmen glanced at one another, elven priests mumbling last minute ovations. Styrmir and his dwarves shouted out with glee as the order came…"FIRE!"

Fire and smoke burst from the gullets of the Dragonsmoke regiment's guns alongside thousands of tiny canister balls. Arrows were loosed from behind them. The entire front line of undead collapsed, ghouls being torn apart by the thousands of bullets, arrows, and cannon balls sent flying through the air. One abomination was hit in the head by one of the cannon's missiles, the ball penetrating one side and bursting out the other. The monster lurched for a moment before falling backwards onto its allies.

"Reload!"

Suddenly several terrifying visages appeared from the ruins of the forest. Trails of frost followed in their wake. They were the liches, the aberrant fallen souls of wizards and fighters placed into phylacteries to continue their damned promise. From their fingertips flew frost and death and blood. Their spells sent dozens into the air, others to horrible, painful deaths as the very ground and air beneath them rotted.

These liches, these masters of death, were spoken of around the campfires. There were stories…rumors…

"Aim!"

Suddenly fire and earth and water returned to combat the spells of the Scourge. Jaina Proudmoore herself stood at the head of her human wizards, elven battlemages and sorceresses.

"Fire!" Thunderpipe jumped in his arms. The human army attacked. The battlemages went with them, jumping into the fray with their staff weapons surrounded by swirling helixes lightning.

"Relocate!" Styrmir called out as not to hit their own allies. The cannon fire still raged, utterly destroying what had once been the tree-line to a pleasant glade. The dwarves picked up their weapons, rushed out of the way as the thundering pounding of feet approached, moving off to the flanks.

The chaos of the battle began to take its place. In the long ring around the mountain the Legion began to realize that this was the only way up the mountain. Fire brimmed and spells destroyed anything which attempted to make their way up any other path. It redirected pressure directly to them.

"Aim!"

Styrmir and his dwarves welcomed the challenge.

"FIRE!"

Scourge Frontlines

Rage Winterchill floated across the battlefield. At his fingertips were the warriors of the Scourge. He had been chosen amongst the most loyal of liches to the Burning Legion for their crusade to Kalimdor.

Before him were the Living; the weak, the blind, the feeble, the terrified…

These creatures whom he had once called brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers were fighting with their back against a wall for survival. The lich thought it was very strange. Why were they fighting on? The end was clearly at hand. Perhaps that difference in thought, that ability to comprehend the things he didn't like was what had led him to the fold of the Scourge.

His line of battle was being torn to pieces. It was ok though. The pawns were merely being used as a test of strength and where best to attack up towards the summit around the mountain. He could now tell that despite the seeming emptiness around almost the entire exterior of Hyjal, most of it was unassailable due to either terrain or strange spells interlaced into the very bedrock itself.

Death and decay sprang up in his path, leaving a trail of mottled poisonous mushrooms, burnt grass, and dead wildlife. Even the worms, desperate to escape the horrific corruption of the soil surfaced, only to find an even worse fate.

Rage Winterchill witnessed the battle ahead. He was the first of the lich lords to make it onto the field. Up ahead on a hill were thousands of humans and dwarves and elves fighting to the brink of madness. Again and again waves of undead were launched forward with little effect.

Winterchill began to feel an angry heat in his mind. The minutes passed by and not a single time could he move the humans. The anger turned to fear. The Legion was coming. What would happen to him if he had not cleared a paltry force before Lord Archimonde arrived?

His fear began to guide his actions.

"Everything forward!" he cried out, his mind sending echoes of the command throughout the Scourge.

Standing at the back of his lines, Rage Winterchill watched as an unstoppable force of Scourge advanced. There was no way that anything could stand up to it. Ten thousand ghouls, hundreds of abominations, entire flight wings of gargoyles and more erupted from the forest.

"FOR THE LEGION!" Rage cried out. He moved forward alongside his forces. The climb was a long one. The entire way up the hill his forces were under enfiladed fire from all sides; cannon to the left, cannon to the right, guns to the center. At the top there would also be swords, magic, and pikes awaiting them.

Thousands of warriors fell upon the slopes leaving a trail of shattered corpses. The ground exploded all around Rage as cannon narrowly missed. The air was cut by the thousands of bullets zipping around. The lich pushed on, his troops almost there.

Yes, he could see the banners now. Up ahead the front lines had smashed into the Alliance's troops. He could see his necromancers and subordinate spell casters dueling with the sorcerers and sorceresses of the humans. There was no way they could lose. The enemy was too weakened, their time had come.

It was truly the sunset for the living, and for Azeroth, as had been foretold. This was their hour; Lord Archimonde's hour.

"Death to the living!" those in the Scourge's army with the ability to speak cried out. "For the Scourge!"

The Scourge army smashed into the Alliance, slaying hundreds, if not thousands in instants. Magic arched and exploded, swords broke, shields shattered, and the day's sun slipped behind the mountain, leaving the combatants in shadow.

Victory was nigh. The humans were about to break. Many ran from their lines and the Scourge ripped through those who yet stood. Suddenly, Rage Winterchill felt a weakness. His skeletal body began to crumble into dust. He looked down…A long, curved blade was stuck directly though his phylactery. At the end of the blade was one of the dark skinned night elves…it was the first time he'd seen one up close. The night elf exuded an air of elegance, deadliness, and utter strangeness.

"Keh seleth da n durana. Barack Demonlasher sends you to hell." The night elf spoke. Rage glanced around him. Night elves, hundreds of them, appeared from the shadows like ghosts.

"Even if you kill me, its nothing compared to what Lord Archimonde will to you all! I am eternal! I am one with the Legion! I WILL NOT PERISH, EVEN IF YOU—" Barack Demonlasher removed his blade from the phylactery with incredible precision, leaving only the small hole he'd inserted into the glass container. Blue energy streamed from the hole, the life force of Rage Winterchill released. The lich died for a second and final time.

Without the guidance and force of the lich lord to guide them the Scourge's attacks fell into disarray. The Alliance, with the help of the night elves, pushed them back.

_Across the long battle line Alliance soldiers defended themselves as waves of undead smashed against their line. It was truly an august scene; below the gentle cresting of the hill, across a mile and a half of open field, an enemy army formed behind the trees, sending a wave of thousands of their own to battle. Atop the hill soldiers young and old, bandaged and bloody, weary and angry, stood. They chanted and screamed, panted and gestured wildly. Some banged their now brittle and battle-damaged swords against their shields, making an awful noise. _

_Many of these men and women had never been more than ten miles from their home towns in their lives. For the peasantry that had followed in this grand adventure, it was a journey through hell. Everything they'd held familiar to them was long gone, leaving only the ache of a home they knew they would never see again. _

_Soldiers of the old armies, marines from Kul Tiras, and the veterans of the Second War did their best to make up for the lack in numbers. Old memories rekindled in them, the horrors of war being brought back by their present duty. _

_The day passed on, leaving only the night. Unable to move the humans, the Burning Legion itself began to form up. For hours the underequipped, incredibly outnumbered Alliance had held, a testament to the strength and conviction of its peoples. _

Alliance Defensive Perimeter, Dusk

After the last offensive the attacks had died down enough to give the Alliance some quick respite. It seemed like most of the defenders were now dead or too wounded to fight. The lines had been thinned considerably.

Styrmir and his dwarves rested. The moon had risen over the tree line, giving light once more to the battlefield, albeit little. What a wondrous and ironic occurrence it was; that a full moon was upon them on the eve of their final battle.

In dwarven lore the full moon was a mystical and strange occasion. The great tales spoke of the ancient gods, those Titans of yore, believing that the world was unfinished and incomplete, placed another light in the sky for their children to bask under. It was the final work of the Titans, having already departed Azeroth forever, to place such a light in the sky where the stars danced. The dwarves, though most of them lived under the mountains, still worshipped the moon as a gift.

A gift it was this night. It had lit up the fields in front of them, though this revealed the gruesome procession of death that the Scourge's attacks had wrought earlier. Bodies from both sides littered the field so that one could walk from the top of the hill down to the forests a mile and a half away without ever touching the grass.

_A dirge is in order. _Styrmir thought. Glancing to his left he frowned. The enigmatic, alien night elves prowled the eastern edge of the hilltop. Indeed if they hadn't come the line would have broken. The humans had no stomach to fight to the death. However, he still distrusted them. They were even more unnerving than the normal elves. Their eyes…movements…even presence was like something so natural that it was unnatural.

"Oi, Styrmir!" a voice called out. Redbeard Ballard, one of his best marksmen pointed to the trees below. Lights began to pierce through the darkness of the forest. Cold air moved slowly through the land, bringing the stink of sulfur and dead bodies. The trees began to move, and not with the rustling.

Sounds rose over the movement of the trees. Those humans foolish enough to fall asleep in the midst of their battle lines were roused. Fear quivered through their troops. They had defeated the Scourge, but this was a new enemy; the enemy that they had run from…the demons from hell itself.

"They are coming…" Ballard said in a low tone, his face hidden in the shadows as he peered below.

Styrmir looked up and beheld in awe as the stars began to fall. The moon suddenly disappeared behind a great eye of flame.

Great comets rained from the sky like rocks from a volcano from the pupil of the fiery eye. The very air itself was lit on fire leaving smoky contrails in the wake of the barrage. Behind the trees horror itself moved as well. As the comets crashed into the mountain top, blowing apart hundreds of men and women, causing landslides, Styrmir crouched beside a rock, fully aware that his life was simply in the hands of fate at this point.

People screamed all around, fear tearing into their souls. This bombardment was far worse than anything they had ever experienced. Bodies were torn limb to limb, shredded to pieces, and crushed beneath the falling flaming boulders.

Suddenly it was over. Styrmir opened one eye hesitantly, and then the other. He lived. Standing though, he saw that the same was not true for most of the others whom had been there moments before.

Below the ground seemed to move rapidly, as if someone had kicked over a Stranglethorn ant nest. Styrmir quickly realized they were not ants. It was the Burning Legion, moving with the strength of its infinite numbers up the hill.

Galdir appeared abruptly, clutching his rifle to his chest. "Styrmir, the infernals be everywhere! The Legion's comin' up the hill! What're we goin' ta do? Give me an order!"

Styrmir looked around for a moment. The line was completely shattered. Patches of resistance here and there held off the infernals as they crawled out of their craters, but it would not be nearly enough when the main force arrived.

Ghostly green light was given off by the unholy flame of the infernals, lighting the battlefield. A cannon fired off in the distance. Screams and whimpers of the wounded mixed in with fear from the route as well as the battle oaths of those still holding.

_Light be with us…it won't hold. _

Below the vast carpet of fel guard and fel hounds easily overcame the trenches and barricades. Their masses were near the top of the hill now. Just as Styrmir was about to order a pullout, an onrushing crowd of night elves and humans led by Lady Proudmoore rushed forward into the fray. The Lady attacked and defended, parrying blows with her staff, swirling and moving with such ferociousness yet gentle femininity that Styrmir could hardly believe she was even a mortal…she seemed more like one of the goddesses of the ancient world.

Styrmir felt a sudden admiration for the humans and shame of himself. Never had it been seen that a dwarf had run where humans had stood. He was disgusted with himself. Tucking his long, pale blonde beard under his armor he raised Thunderpipe above his head.

"BAYONETS!" he cried out in dwarvish.

The cries of his dwarves acknowledgement rang out through the night sky, even though he couldn't see most of them. Yells of joy and blood filled them. The dwarves hooked their long, sharpened and oiled bayonets onto the barrels of their weapons. Styrmir's own was adorned with runes to give it better luck.

"FOR KHAZ MODAN!" he screamed, voice cracking and high pitched.

"IRONFORGE!" "DUN MOROGH!" "THELSAMAR!" Similar screams filled the air.

Styrmir ran forward, his dwarves following. As the Burning Legion's assault culminated, the rifle regiment, almost out of bullets, out of hope, and out of their minds, attacked. Laughing, Styrmir and his fellows plowed into the lines of the Legion.

The dwarf stabbed at one fel hound, eagerly pushing the wounded creature aside. Another appeared directly in front of him. Styrmir, using his muscled legs, jumped four feet to the side, turned in a fluid motion, pulled his trigger and let the blunderbuss explode sending a hail of canister into the monster. The demon's head exploded spraying him with purple and bits of yellow skull.

"AYE!!!"

He noticed Jaina Proudmoore and her contingent surrounded. Fel guard and hounds were closing in on them. Not even the Lady's magic could keep them at bay. "To Proudmoore!" Styrmir shouted out.

However many men he had left he didn't know, but there were still many following him. He tackled a fel guard humanoid that stood in his midst, bashing in its face with the butt of Thunderpipe several times before jumping up and moving on.

Just as he arrived one of the fel hounds had managed to penetrate the small copse of fighters, latching on its magic-sucking tentacles onto Jaina Proudmoore. Jumping off the small mound of corpses surrounding her, Styrmir grabbed onto the fel hounds tentacles, ripped them out of the Lady and with a great heave threw the demon off to the side. Swinging his gun around on the satchel rope he'd tied it onto, he felt Thunderpipe smack firmly into his hands again. As Jaina fell to a knee, utterly exhausted, Styrmir noticed another three fel hounds about to attack.

Without even thinking Styrmir with one hand tossed several balls into the gun, ramming them in with his burly hand. With the other he tore open a black powder package and tossed it into the gun's opening. As the hounds jumped into the air, instants away from tearing them both to pieces, Styrmir took an aimed shot at the center. The three hounds flew backwards, thrown in the opposite direction even in midair by the sheer power of Thunderpipe.

"Rest here milady. My dwarves'll hold em' off for a bit." He spoke, leaving behind the bewildered sorceress.

No sooner had he stepped forward however a fel guard appeared in front of him. It brought down its flaming sword. Styrmir instinctively brought up Thunderpipe. The blade went clean through the gun that had been handed down through his family, cutting it in half. The blue skinned fel guard staggered for a moment though and then fell to the side.

Behind it was both Galdir and Redbeard Ballard. Their bayonets dripped with blood. It was too chaotic to make out where the rest of his dwarves were, but he knew that all around fighting still raged. His brothers were with him. With the sound of blood rushing through his ears, he gave each of them a quick, bloody grin and again went forward.

Left and right he bashed both undead and demons with the half of Thunderpipe's end and sliced with the other half's bayonet. After killing another three or four of the monsters, Galdir, Redbeard, and Styrmir crouched down to catch their breath. The enemy's forces refused to thin. Something gigantic moved with them.

Completely trampling the trees and even its own allies, a massive demon, three times the size of any doomguard, walked forward. Its skin was an off-viridian green. At its very whim the earth seemed to boil and erupt, the hill that the Alliance base had been on moments ago collapsing as if a great chamber beneath it had caved in.

Somehow in the chaos they'd ended up near an abandoned artillery battery, the cannons and their stockpiles of explosive ammunition simply left to the wind. Galdir looked back at the others with a gleam in his eye.

"…The last one?" Galdir asked pensively.

"Aye, the last one." Styrmir Velbjörn agreed. He picked up a piece of sharpened ivory from what must've been from a doomguard. The massive, drill-like horn was heavy in his hands and unfamiliar. He felt a sudden wave of sadness as he thought of Thunderpipe's brutal end. He'd hoped maybe one day to hand it to his own son, but that opportunity was past now.

The three dwarves butted each others heads in a gesture of masculinity and courage. All around them the demons thickened. Redbeard and Styrmir rushed out to protect Galdir as he hurriedly stacked the explosives into a messy pile. He rolled cannon balls and small crates of musket ammunition into place, everything that had been left at the dump around the battery. Redbeard was struck on the shoulder with a flaming sword, the weapon slicing deep into his lung and body. The dwarf did not get up.

Styrmir tanked a blow to the chest, the axe glancing off his bones sending a stream of blood upwards. He fell to the floor. More demons began to take notice. He waved the tusk around wildly. The demons backed away, afraid of the dwarf's utter tenacity. Galdir attempted to light a fuse with his gun, but suddenly his head went flying as an infernal tore it clean off the shoulders.

Styrmir swore as loud as he could. All around the demons were closing in on him. Crawling towards Galdir's headless body, he picked up his unblooded-brother's weapon and fired it off into the crowd. The infernal that had killed Galdir suddenly set its eyes upon him.

A stroke of genius, or madness, was born in Styrmir. He began to cackle and stood, blood pouring from his wounds. He grabbed the long fuse that led back to the cache of explosives and bolted towards the infernal. With one powerful jump he grabbed one of the jagged rocks that made up the skeleton of the demon. The fire licked his flesh, burning his face and chest.

"GOTCHA'!" The dwarf yelled out in glee, shoving the fuse into the demon's flaming exterior. It lit. The monster had no clue what was about to happen. Seconds later as the dwarf's lifeless body fell to the ground the sparkling fuse hit the end of its rope. A massive detonation ruptured the air, taking with it hundreds of demons and setting a pyre for the dwarves. Truly, they're ancestors would be proud.

Together the three stood and with roars that put fear into even the hearts of demons they attacked.

Alliance Camp, Minutes Later

"Fall back!" The sounds carried through the wind. The line had been breached and now it was time to save who they could. In the distance a utterly massive creature moved towards them. Its body was silhouetted against the moon, a massive tail beating the ground like a drum causing earthquakes.

All around her men fled in horror. They had stalled the demons attack somehow, but now something far worse was heading towards them. Her mind flittered back to the dwarf that had saved her life. Was he now dead? She felt a pang of regret in not ordering him to fall back. Would he have listened anyway?

Jaina Proudmoore banished all those thoughts from her head. Standing amidst the sea of terrified people she felt the meditation techniques of the Kirin Tor come to mind. Slowly, with deep breaths she calmed herself. She had been wildly out of line when she'd led that foolish assault on the front. Never would she have done that if she'd been thinking clearly.

Pulling her long, blonde hair back into a ponytail, Jaina stilled even her beating heart; her chest no longer wildly moving up and down with quick breath. She knew what was coming.

The ground had cracked and split as the great arch-demon approached. The Alliance base crumbled into the ground. At last the architect of all that had occurred, all the death, suffering, and destruction, appeared before her, and she stood still. The air was suddenly filled with a thick, purple mist.

Standing over a hundred feet tall, Archimonde stopped his rampage for a moment to observe the strange, single human whom even dared to think about not running in his presence . It was a most curious thing.

Jaina Proudmoore looked up at Archimonde. She could see the monster's face clearly in the early morning darkness, the light from the fires of the battlefield reflecting off his flesh. For almost a minute the two stood in silence, simply inspecting one another, waiting for the other to move.

For Jaina the stare-down seemed to last an eternity, her meditation barely holding her together. At long last, Archimonde's gullet let loose a deep laugh. The sound was deafening. It vibrated her very bones. The clouds of mist that had preceded him were blown away.

"**You are very brave to stand against me, little human. If only your countrymen had been as bold, I would have had more fun scouring your wretched nations from the world.**" Archimonde quipped.

Jaina felt anger convulsing inside her. She gripped her staff tighter. Suddenly, with everything she had, she let loose a torrent of magical energy that left the air itself ripped apart behind it. The sound of thunder exploded as the air crashed back together. The arch-demon brought up his arm to guard himself against the blow. It exploded off the edge of a scale-shielded forearm, ricocheting into the woods. For a moment there was silence, and then a great fulmination which lit up the night sky.

"Is talking all you demons do?" Jaina asked quizzically, a cheeky smile on her face. She suddenly released a gem filled with magical energy. The influx of new power filled her. Runes appeared below her feet, and just as Archimonde struck out with an arm, she disappeared into thin air, the teleportation successful.

The arch-demon howled in frustration. "**Stormrage! Show yourself! Or do you intent to have mortal girls do all your fighting for you?**"

Jaina reappeared far off in the distant forest with the remnants of her forces. They had done all they could. She felt a surprising pride in herself. She'd stood up to the arch-demon of the Burning Legion and not blinked an eye.

_I guess I have grown…haven't I father? Master Antonidas? _So much had happened; the Prophet, the Plague, and the Great Voyage.

"Good luck…" she whispered under her breath, looking back towards Mount Hyjal.

Thrall's Base, Mount Hyjal

"Axes my brethren! Blood and honor awaits!" The orc chieftains and commanders called out, riding their frostwolves across the long lines. The sun had not yet even begun to rise and the demons were coming.

Thrall had witnessed for himself the strength with which the humans fought with against the Scourge and Legion atop his mount higher up on the mountain. Every instinct in him had urged him to rush forward and join the battle like an uncontrollable itch, but he needed again and again to remind himself that the Horde's role was yet to come.

Many orcs had attempted to break camp and join the fight, their natural bloodlust getting the better of them. They had been rounded up by the Frostwolf clan's raiders and taken back to the lines. Orcs did not like to wait for battle to come to them. Instead, they preferred that they took the battle to the enemy. It was that principle that had guided tens of thousands of good orcs to worthless deaths in the Great Second War, the one before that, and even on Draenor.

Draenor…Thrall thought of the long lost home of the orcs. He'd heard many stories from the older warriors about the land, both before and after its corruption; once it had brimmed with game and plentiful, rich land.

Terrokar forest dotted the western lands. It had long been the place where the draenei, the fellow inhabitants of their world, called home, and so the orcs left it alone for the most part. Rarely would they get the chance to venture into the homesteads of the enigmatic draenei, though when they did, tales of the great and terrifying magics and abilities of their neighbors rang through the land.

The green fields of Nagrand stretched for hundreds of miles in all directions, and at its focal center was the gathering place of the spirits; Oshu'gun. Many times he'd heard the name of the famed rock. It was a gleaming white gem upon the land, reaching high into the sky. The caverns of Oshu'gun had been the place where the orcs had held the clan pilgrimage to for centuries, for within those caverns, the very spirits themselves manifested, or so it was told.

There were also the great mushroomed marshes of Zanger, the Blade's Edge Mountains, of which many famous old orcish clans had once existed in. Draenor…the lost dream of the orcs.

The corruption had come, not even long ago when Thrall thought about it; just a generation or two. It had destroyed the land, leeching the soil of nutrients, turning plains into deserts, rivers into empty canyons, killing the wildlife, and eventually even ripping apart the world itself.

The power hungry leaders of that age, led by the evil warlock Gul'dan, had caused this corruption. In the midst of the ecological crisis, the orcish clans turned to obsessive infighting. As the wars continued to grow bloodier yet, the manipulative Gul'dan and his master Ner'zhul united the orcs under the warchief Blackhand, claiming that it was the draenei who were to blame for the world's problems.

Thus an age of genocidal war against the once peaceful neighbors of the orcs began. Of all the horrific acts of the old Horde, Thrall felt the utter destruction of the draenei was the worst. However, by then, the orcs had already been influenced by the demons…the same ones that were marching up the hill…the same ones Grom Hellscream had given his life to defeat.

The ground shook with the stomping of feet. The orcs were ready. Under the moonlight, in the midst of the tall trees and sea of fallen leaves, the orcs were prepared to fight their past and reclaim their future.

Thrall watched quietly. Earlier he had set his order of battle. Thirty thousand orcs would have the honor of participating. The Shattered Hand, Frostwolf, Warsong, and Bleeding Hollow Clans, remnants of the old clan system would be at the front. They were strong veterans. Each and every one of them had been tested in battle many times before.

They had been placed in a long, stretched line ranging almost three miles with the night elf wards flanking them. Behind the clans were the newer organs of the Horde, the khus. When he had begun to reorganize the Horde, Thrall had found that many clans had been shattered beyond repair. Each khus was split into smaller bahads of 3-5,000 warriors. Again and again their numbers were regimented until eventually the Horde had gained the mobility and independence capabilities of the Alliance, for whom Thrall had initially organized it to fight. No longer was the Horde simply about throwing their numbers into the axes of their enemies.

Thrall made his way to the frontline, the orcs opening a wide berth for him.

He punched the armor of some orcs in a gesture of confidence, examining some of their weapons. Many orcs bowed their heads in the presence of the warchief.

"Lok-regar, warchief." "Galem nar ghrav." "Aka'maggosh!" The cries arose.

To many he had become almost like a messiah. After all, the Warchief Thrall was the embodiment of orcish strength. He had freed them from slavery, freed them from their demonic curse, and led them to a place where they could at last make a home for themselves. Thrall disagreed with much of the praise he received however. The orcs fought just as hard as he did. They had regained their nobility and honor together.

Travelling through this land and that, they had gained allies with the shows of their justice and honor. The trolls of Vol'jin had joined them, as had Cairne Bloodhoof's tauren who now stood interspersed throughout the great battle line.

"_**Throm'ka Warchief!"**_

"Brothers!" Thrall cried out, his frostwolf striding quickly in front of the lines. "The time for blood and thunder has come! Let us show the demons the power of the spirits, the power of our arms, and the POWER OF OUR PRIDE!"

"_**Lok-regar ogul!" **_

The demons appeared under the trees. There was a seeming wall of them. It looked like to Thrall like a great tidal wave, ready to crash upon everything they had strived for. The orcs stood in disbelief. The vast array of other-worldly aberrations before them were far worse than anything they'd been told of. A disheartening quiet ran through the lines.

Humans, no matter their numbers, were not a problem. Night elves, after their surprise was stripped, were easy prey. The dwarves, one just had to break the shell of their fortresses to find the soft insides. These demons…they were the ones whom had led the orcish race to the brink of destruction before. They were true hellspawn—the things told around the night campfires and elder-story circles.

The two sides stood for a minute, staring. Another minute passed...

Thrall looked out at his army. He knew what the demons were trying to do: incite fear. They wished to win without even fighting, and then they could all run out into the forests in front of them and wipe up the terrified remnants.

"Khelum!" Thrall cried under his breath. At this rate they would route before they even fought…the stigma of the demons ran deep in the orcs minds.

He inched forward on Snowfire, his frostwolf. On his way up, he began to channel the strength of the spirits within himself. They were especially giving today. They knew what was happening. Thrall grinned with vigorous energy. The world opened before him.

He could see every shadow dancing, every leaf crushed beneath the bare feet of orcs and hoofs of demons. He could taste the blood, gore, and fire in the air. He was able to sense the slight kissing movements through the air before they even happened. Animals, plants, and even the insects lent their power to him.

He clapped his hands together and slowly began to pull them apart. The smell of static filled the air. Hot, cyan lightning appeared between his two opening hands, linking them together. His hair began to stand on end, the currents in the air charging each strand. His eyes glowed deep white.

The orcs were captivated. The demons stepped back, wary and unsure of what was about to happen. An eredar suddenly leaped forward and fired a bolt of green magic towards Thrall. The orc warchief held up his lightning, absorbing the magic, and suddenly releasing it.

The lightning struck the eredar causing the demon to explode and splatter on its comrades around him. However, the attack did not stop there. The lightning fanned outwards in a chain of attacks that ran down the entire front line of the demons. Hundreds exploded or collapsed. The Horde cheered, freed from their fears.

"LOK'NAROSH!" Thrall shouted, giving the order to charge. The Horde attacked. Tauren, with their massive totem poles, crushed everything below them. Orcs with axes and hammers smashed skulls. Trolls tossed their javelins and cast their hexes. Catapults loaded with flaming missiles fired. Compact orcish bows unleashed their payload.

Upon Mount Hyjal the Horde's destiny would be forged.

Alterac Mountains, Two Years Ago, Winter

The wintry peaks of Alterac jabbed the blue sky like needles. This was the adopted home of the Frostwolves. Thrall, younger now, with shorter hair and less scars, moved energetically through the snowy expanses.

He saw the fowl reappear behind an evergreen. For an instant the two locked eyes. Thrall tossed his axe, the weapon spinning through the air. It missed, embedding itself in the evergreen. The fowl began to bolt. Before it had run five yards though, another orc, this one a massive behemoth jumped out from beneath the snow brandishing a gigantic black hammer. He swung the weapon upwards, catching the fowl directly on the chin. The young auroch's head flew backwards, the neck snapped, before collapsing in a heap.

"You have speed, bulk, and above all surprise. It was not a fair contest." Thrall protested.

The older, bigger orc laughed warmly. "You have a keen mind, Thrall. You should have set a trap yourself rather than chasing this beast on foot. You know better. You are Warchief now." He cleaned the blood off of his hammer.

Thrall stared at the weapon longingly. Orgrim Doomhammer seemed to notice. "One day, young Frostwolf, it will be yours. Until that day, I uphold my ancestor's honor with the Doomhammer."

It was a magnificent hammer. On either side of it's onyx face were the emblems of the Blackrock clan. The actual hammer was as big as his head, and the long, smoothed wooden pommel ran three feet down into a leathery grip-guard.

The Horde had been reborn…every day more orcs joined their cause. The winter storms had caused them to have to retreat into the camps for a while, but even so, those who managed to free themselves found their way to the Frostwolf base.

With their numbers increasing all the time, it would only be a matter of time until the Alliance _had _to recognize him and barter a deal for freedom, lest risks another war. It must've been the worst fear of King Terenas, to see his old enemy revived from death's door. It would be even more disconcerting for him once he had heard that Doomhammer himself had made his way to the Horde.

For years the former warchief was kept as a 'guest of honor' in Menethil Castle. He'd eventually escaped, and when he'd heard of Thrall's resistance, had joined him. Doomhammer had taught him much; about strategy, the ancient ways of the orcs, his heritage and father Durotan, and many more things.

Doomhammer looked off into the distance, placing the weapon that he'd been named after down into the snow. He was contemplative and calm.

"Thrall, there are many things I regret. In the beginning, my actions were guided completely by my love for our people. I fought to restore our nobility, even though the corruption of the demons was still deep in our blood."

"As the years passed and the wars grew, I began to barter away my soul, the souls of our people, ever so slightly. I did it for victory, and so we could have a new home. That was what I told myself. Necessity and urgency began to eat me as I threw away what chances the Horde had left. I made so many mistakes." The orc thought back to the siege of Lordaeron, the murder of Lothar, and all the other painful memories; times when a different action could have avoided all the suffering that they had had to end up going through.

"Thrall…you cannot make these mistakes. I fear if history should repeat itself, we are doomed forever. The demons still linger in many of us, as you can see with your friend Hellscream. You know what you must do. You know it is your destiny to free the orcs and lead our people to the home they deserve."

Thrall was silent. Never had Orgrim confided in him before.

The months passed and winter faded. The battles began again, and this time it was at Durnholde, the old castle where he'd been kept prisoner for gladiatorial battles. The Horde fought valiantly, and none more so than Orgrim Doomhammer, however the mighty warrior was felled at last by a lance.

"Thrall…accept my hammer and armor. Your—day has come." Orgrim had spoken with bloody lips, throngs of orcs gathering around the fallen hero.

"I cannot…I am not worthy." Thrall was dumb with shock. His mentor and inspiration had been felled by a lance to the back after so many battles?

"You can, and you will!" Orgrim growled. "You, among all who breathe, are worthy. You will lead our people to victory—to peace—destiny."

Thrall grasped the warhammer and lifted it over his head. It was incredibly heavy, both physically and with the burden of his people.

"BY DYING WORD OF ORGRIM DOOMHAMMER, I AM THE LORD OF THE CLANS! I AM WARCHIEF!" He shouted out. The orcs cried back, their voices filled with grief for Orgrim, for hope in Thrall, and for the battle to come. He had never heard a sound like it. This same sound Thrall would hear every day of his life. It would be the same sound he heard upon the slopes of Mount Hyjal.

Mount Hyjal, Present

_The forests were lit by both the early morning rays peaking over the horizon as well as the forest fires that had begun to rampage out of control. The conflagration had absorbed hundreds of hectares of forest as the Horde and demons battled._

_Burly orcish arms glistened in the pale lights as sweat dropped from their brows. The battle was incredible; something to be told generations from now. With the stalwart support of their warchief, the orcs felt the fear of the demons dissipate. _

_Under the burning sky the orcs confronted their past and an epic battle was joined. In the forges of fate the fight raged, the foretold paths of the future splitting and grinding, twisting and whirling off into the distance. The tornadoes of confusion and willpower drove the affray._

_The strength of the orcs was unleashed upon the Legion who fought an uphill battle, both literally and figuratively. _

"Take that salient!" Thrall shouted out. His troops shifted their attack. He rode at the fore of one of the smaller scrimmages, the battle devolving into localized confrontations in the thick of the forest. Two hundred orcs and perhaps a dozen of Vol'jin's trolls dashed through the timberland. Axes, already bloodied, were brought down again and again.

A group of fel guard, especially strong felguard at that, had taken an area above the main battle after breaking through the lines. They had been isolated, but if they were not dealt with, they could strike with impunity at either the supply line or the back of the Horde's forces.

Snowfire led the attack, jumping over the first few felguard. Behind him he heard his troops crash into the enemy, the sound of metal on metal and flesh coming into play. He whirled the Doomhammer around, making a space for him and Snowfire. Blood, from where he knew not, splattered on him.

Thrall felt the spirits empowering the Doomhammer as they had in his battle against Mannaroth. The weapon glowed white hot, steam and wavy air coming off of its surface. He tossed it at the nearest demon. The weapon was embedded in the being's chest. Thrall kicked the sides of Snowfire, driving her forward. As they ran by the dying demon, he pulled out the Doomhammer.

The battle became a blur. He moved from one opponent to the next, hoping that his armor would hold against all the glancing blows. His muscles at first burned and ached, but after a while they became numb to the fighting. He was intensely thirsty. Sweat and blood dripped off of him like rain.

To all sides he saw fighting. The felguards were dealt with, but there was another problem—and then another, and another. He moved like the wind, answering the call where it was needed. A spear penetrated Orgrim's armor, twisting it inward and penetrating the flesh above his hip. He killed the skeleton that had wounded him with bone cracking head butt, then broke off the shaft of the weapon and pulled it out all at once.

At one point he saw Cairne Bloodhoof surrounded by several dozen of his gigantic tauren wreaking utter havoc. They were surrounded and he tried to help, but the chaos of battle came between him and his new ally and friend. Waves and waves of demons came at them. Orc shamans garbed in their ceremonial wolf pelts sniped out eredar spellcasters.

From the ground horrible things emerged; slithering centipedes as thick as an orc's height, dozens of tiny scarab beetles that ripped the flesh right off the bone, and more. The trees themselves began to turn against the orcs in some places where the corruption had grown too terrible. They would collapse directly on a warlord or enclose a group of warriors amongst their brambles. Some would even uproot and swing at the Horde members with their great branches.

Thrall suddenly found himself somewhere and didn't remember how he'd gotten there. Everything had just become so unconscious that he didn't even remember…a group of orcs and a troll were fighting around a great furry beast that looked like it had at one point been a kodo, but was now filled to the brim with ridiculously large hooks and horns. Around it a red mist greeted any that tried to close in on it. Behind it several dozen felhounds approached.

Thrall felt the Spirit's touch once more and placed his hand on the ground. Suddenly in a blaze of lightning two ghostly frostwolves appeared. The two phantasmal wolves passed clean through the twisted kodo's attacks. When they jumped upon it and bit down on its neck however, their jaws cleanly pierced its now demonic flesh.

The orcs cheered and attacked the felhounds. There was a sudden gust of wind. The light of the world' was blocked out for a second. Thrall looked up to see great black wings descending upon him, connected to what looked like a gigantic eyeball. Two talons hung from the demon's underside. They grasped him tightly, some finding their way through the weak points in his armor and pinching the chain beneath it against his green flesh painfully.

The warchief cried out in anger, unable to raise his arms enough to strike the beast due to his armored arms. The two suddenly blasted into the air. Before they'd reached the leafy canopy however, a rain of yellow, pussy blood fell in front of Thrall. He looked up to see a long spear protruding from the main body-eye, of the demon. The two fell, but Thrall twisted and pushed himself upwards, bringing the demon below him to break his fall.

With a thud, the two fell back to the ground. Standing before Thrall was the troll whom had been with the orcs when they'd attacked .Getting up, Thrall put a hand on the troll's chest.

"You saved me this day, troll-kind. What is your name?"

"Warchief, ma' name be Zun'tal of the Kessthi tribe. Pleased to be makin' in yo' presence." The troll replied in thick jungle accents. His blue skin indicated that he was one of the tribes that followed Sen'jin after he'd saved them on that accursed island on their way to Kalimdor.

A roar filled the air. It was both terrible and glorious.

Thrall turned to the ground and with the help of the spirits sent a great fissure into the ground. The earth rumbled as it tore apart, severing the Legion's front lines from their main body all the way across the 3 mile front. The exhaustion nearly overwhelmed him. Thrall fell to his knees.

He knew that their mission was complete. They'd held as long as they could. With that untouchable monster approaching, standing in its way would merely mean the meaningless deaths of countless of his best warriors.

"Zun'tal, tell Vol'jin to lead the Horde out of the forests. Archimonde approaches and we stand NO chance against him here!" Thrall called out.

Far below them, where a group of orcish warriors from the Warsong clan, flush with vengeance for Grom Hellscream, had broken through the demonic lines, Archimonde had appeared before them. With the swift movement of an arm, hundreds of orcs were swept away by a blast of magic. Archimonde had finally appeared in all his terrible glory. He advanced up the hill swiftly.

Horde Lines, Minutes Later

Vol'jin poured a vile of blue, steaming liquid upon the body of a prostrate demon that had been knocked down by a tauren totem moments earlier. The body began to shrivel and disintegrate at the touch of the liquid. The demon's essence seemed to evaporate from its body, entering the up drafting steam. Holding out a dream catcher-like object, Vol'jin collected the spirit and smiled darkly.

In the other hand he held the ceremonial knife of his father, Sen'jin, whom had died bravely upon the isles saving his people from the humans. A loose loincloth covered his male bits, a skull belt adorning his hips. Upon his shoulders rested face-like pauldrons of thin wood, and on his wrists bracelets of golden snakes with emerald eyes. The wooden seat of his office hung from the pierced rolls of skin in his back, the top adorned with bright feathers. Lastly, the hair upon his head was gathered into a top knot that was tied directly upwards ending in a frizzy ball.

As the spirits of those he'd killed collected around his dream-catcher, the shadow hunter unleashed the power of the Loa Lukou. Beams of helix magic spiraled outwards from his body towards his fellow trolls. The energy entered their bodies, reinvigorating them and cleansing them of poisons and wounds.

"Vol'jin das mona voo!" Trolls cried out in happiness.

The shadow hunter's smile grew. Even his own people did not know the true extent, and darkness of the powers he and the select other few shadow hunters utilized; the power of the Loa.

There was Legba, of motion and swiftness, Lukou of healing and respite, Samedi who governed the graves, Shango of the storms, Oguoun of war and mayhem, and finally, the most respected and revered, Shambala, lord of serpents and treachery.

Each of the Loa had been long revered among the Gurubashi jungle and island tribe trolls. Their chantry extended past all known knowledge. Vol'jin felt a bitter taste in his mouth as he thought of the ancient Gurubashi Empire and its downfall. That downfall had been the cause of the harsh exodus of his people to the far northern islands where they'd resided until the Horde arrived. The Darkspears had a long and black history.

Thrall however changed that when he'd shown the honor and nobility that impressed every single one of his people. Vol'jin swore his allegiance to Thrall on that rainy day upon those broken isles. He hadn't forgotten it either.

"Vol'jin!" A voice called out. He turned from the carnage his long-limbed warriors were wreaking. It was a troll, his apprentice Zun'tal.

"Hail!"

"Hail! Thrall, Warchief wishes us outta' dees here forests. He wants you to spread da' word that we are to fall back. We been holdin' long enough." Zun'tal spoke.

Vol'jin could sense the urgency and truth behind his apprentice's words. Indeed the time had come. A dark shadow was being cast over the battlefield. A massive outline moved across the sky, blocking out the setting moon.

"Very well den'. Let's go." Vol'jin complied with the Warchief's, his Warchief's orders.

Mount Hyjal, Horde-held plateau

Thrall crossed his thickly corded arms. He stood still as his orcs fell back reluctantly. He could see in their eyes the same natural blood lust that every orc shared. They were beginning to enjoy the fighting. They now knew that the demons could be killed just as easily as mortals, just in different ways.

As more and more of them noticed the approaching figure of Archimonde however, the orderly retreat began to fall apart into a panicked route.

"Warchief, are you sure of what you are doing?" Cairne Bloodhoof's wise, thrumming voice asked.

The tauren were moving in their war packs back towards the appointed retreat area. They, along with the rest of the Horde had held for several hours. Thrall believed it was enough time to allow the arch-druid to initiate his plan.

"More sure than I've been in a long time. Cairne…my people, make sure that they follow the right path. There are many great orcs, its just—"

_I would rather risk my own life than the entire Horde in confronting this demon._

"You want assurance. I understand. As long as the Bloodhoof exist, they will aid the orcs. We will be at their side, helping and watching." Cairne bared his teeth in what Thrall guessed was a smile.

"Aka-maggosh, Cairne Bloodhoof." Thrall gave the tauren an orcish salute. Cairne bowed deeply and disappeared into the streams of the retreating.

As the minutes passed and the Horde disappeared behind the trees to his rear, Thrall saw that out of the woodland in front of him the demons had overcome the great fissure he'd planted in the ground. Their tumbling wave advanced and then suddenly stopped three hundred feet in front of him.

Silence.

Suddenly a great blast of blue energy exploded from Ashenvale. The sky above the blast seemed to schism and pull apart. He could see a translucent tunnel seemingly appear in the atmosphere, a twisting ribbon of green magic pouring from its interior.

As the magic slid down to the earth Thrall noticed it centered around the pillars of smoke. They swirled like the eye of a hurricane around the ruined campsite, blowing away the smoke to reveal the great demon itself; Archimonde. The Defiler reveled as the magic that had belonged to his body in the Nether returned to him. He was almost whole again. The process of splitting his soul and power to enter into the mortal world and then reassembling it was nigh done.

Thrall waited patiently, for he knew no matter what he did now he could not change what was to come. Archimonde released the spell when he was satisfied with the power he'd garnered. In a flash of light he disappeared, almost instantaneously reappearing in the trees before the Legion.

Gusts of hot air, like airbursts, whipped up around Thrall. Trees in the vicinity of the demon lord were toppled, crashing to the ground with great thumps and the clattering of a thousand breaking sticks and branches.

"**You orcs are weak, and hardly worth the effort. I wonder why Mannaroth even bothered with you.**" The demon's lava hot breath washed over Thrall giving him goosebumps. The skies above had turned from a dusky early morning blue-orange to blood red. Smoke blotted out the horizons in all directions.

Thrall felt something bubble up within him. It was something that Grom had shown him in their battle against the pit lord, something that he himself had not even fully realized until then.

"Our spirit is stronger than you know, demon. If we are to fall, so be it. At least now we are free!" Thrall felt what he thought Grom must have felt that day. All the emotions of his people were inside him, calling out. They called out for freedom. They wanted to prove that they had fought, that they were not what they were.

Thrall's eyes burned with the greatest magic he'd ever been granted by the Spirits. Trails of steamy magic evaporated from his nostrils, mouth, and pores. In his hands white electricity gathered, popping and sizzling his armor and flesh.

"FOR—THE—HORDE!" Thrall exclaimed, his voice losing itself amidst the sound of the charging lightning. Unleashing the vast wave, Thrall backed up a step, unsure of what would actually occur. Never before had he even seen such power, much less been granted it himself by the Spirits.

Archimonde stood laughing as the electric tsunami plowed over him. His laughing stopped all too suddenly when he realized that the attack could actually do some damage. Raising his hands, Archimonde let out a howl that knocked over thousands more trees and dissipated the attack. His arms had been singed by the sudden outburst. He looked at Thrall incredulously. The orc looked back with determined eyes, bringing the Doomhammer to ready.

Abruptly, Jaina Proudmoore's figure appeared in the middle of the field as her instant recall scroll fizzled into nothingness. She had teleported in but several feet from Thrall. Before she even landed properly she started moving towards the orc, jumped into the air as if to tackle him, and as her arms reached around his chest, the two disappeared again in another flash.

"**The wretched little whelp actually hurt me!**" Archimonde finally saw some stroke of intelligence in Mannaroth's thoughts. Perhaps these orcs had some, if only a miniscule amount, of potential in them. He laughed. "**Are there none left to stand against the Legion!?**" He shouted out for all to hear.

As his voice subsided the two strange allies reappeared in the distant forest near the human refugees. "Jaina, what—" Thrall almost fell face flat on the ground as the two blinked out of the inter-dimensional portal that Jaina had tossed them into.

Disoriented and nauseated from his first portal-jump, Thrall doubled over. Jaina collapsed to the floor. "He was about to kill you."

"Yes, I know." Thrall replied angrily. "I had unfinished business with it."

"It would have remained unfinished if you'd died." She replied logically.

Thrall was silent for a moment. They both looked up. On the side of the mountain, Archimonde, now even bigger than before having drained more of the Nether's magic raced towards the top where the gigantic tree resided.

"Your timing could not have been better." Thrall still felt as if the human words were uncomfortable on his tongue, even though it had been the first language he'd learned.

"Aye, well, I wasn't expecting to see you facing off with the lord of hell himself. I thought maybe you could use a hand evacuating, but—" She trailed off, staring at a tree. Thrall was enamored by what he saw as well.

A blue ball of wispy energy spun around the trunk of a great redwood. It began to descend, the spiral getting larger as it reached towards the ground. When it did, it sped off towards the mountain. Another followed from some other tree. Then another appeared, and another, and another.

"What are they?" Jaina whispered.

"Spirits…they have come to help." Thrall answered, feeling a new confidence fill him.

(Hey everyone, I know this chapter's taken a long time to come out and you might be surprised that it ended here rather than at the end of the actual mission, however, the chapter was beginning to become far too long and bulky to be in one big installment. In fact, it would have ended up being much longer than the last chapter.

Thus I split the chapter between this section, and the next which is already mostly done and should be out soon. Thanks for sticking with me so far all, see you soon.

-Omegatrooper)


	44. Chapter 43: Ragnarök

**Chapter 43: ****Ragnarök**

Atop Mount Hyjal, Sentinel Defenses

Far beyond the Horde and Alliance's fortifications, up a long and winding path, through many layers of atmosphere, each colder and drier than the last, lay the Sentinel's great Vigil Hold, a castle constructed for the very reason of defending Nordrassil. It was the greatest defensive structure ever conceived by night elf hands, and all the druidic and holy spells that laced the forests below were all directed from this place.

For ten thousand years the place had been abandoned, left to the wilds of nature. Much of it had been overgrown, giving it the look of an ancient ruin rather than the pinnacle of defensive castle architecture that it was. Vines had taken over the walls, inching their way around the stone-vegetation fused works until almost nothing of the fort's walls could be seen.

The great edifice had been built over an entire square mile. Thousands of little peep holes had been built in or punctured by nature's growths, making them perfect spots for her bowmen to fire from. Rocks, brambles, and trees covered the area as well, providing much needed cover. When the Enemy made it up here, they could find themselves under fire from literally all sides.

Shandris Feathermoon surveyed the battles occurring below Mount Hyjal from the Cenarion Tower, an outlook point that was raised above the rest of the trees which had grown in the great courtyards of the Hold. Vigil Hold was the uttermost last line of defense in case the Legion attacked. Thousands of separate wards, both druidic and from the Priestesses of the Moon, had been intricately laced around the mountain in order to funnel the Legion through the thin pathway that led directly to this place.

She shifted uncomfortably. She was tired of waiting. A leather cuirass protected her chest, breasts, and stomach. A quiver of specially wrought, enchanted arrows hung at her side like a satchel. Long boots of the finest beaten owlbear feather and flesh rose to her knees, falling just short of the fur skirt, exposing mere inches of supple thighs.

A silvery light from the moon's last gleaming mixed with the growing, hot pastels in the east. Though she had already fought before, and though she'd long since thought she had overcome the 'rigors', the fears of battle, Shandris felt the tingling anxiety gnawing at her insides. When she was but a child, the demons had taken everything from her; family, friends, a home. She'd fallen in with refugees, and eventually been rescued by the Priestess Tyrande. Ever since that day she'd pledged her undying support for the Priestess.

Even when her lover, Jarod, had passed, she'd continued her vigil just as this Hold had. The eternal symphony had gone on so long...

_At the end of all things it comes to this; violence again. _

"Saan, du na dyst alar nasur." Shandris began to sing, her voice like lily flowers floating gently across a placid lake.

"Nasur de les les aman tas Elune..." an archer beside her picked up the verses with her. Soon, another began to song, and another, and another.

As the demons advanced, the night elves began to break into the melancholic song of their history. It ended with the description of Eternity's End. The world's breaking and the passing of all things. That day was this day.

"Keep us, Elune!" She heard a Sentinel call out as the rising sun passed behind the mountain leaving shadow. The entire side of the mountain cast in shadow was lit up with the Legion's minions and carnage.

"Sentinels! To the ready!" Shandris called out. Priestess Tyrande was with the other women of Elune in the main chambers, uttering their prayers and preparing for the battle. A sense of tense had fallen over the night elves. Thousands of their kind, warriors from every walk of life, had gathered, crying out in a unified voice that they would not fall to the demons; that they would not repeat the mistakes of the past, and that their race, so ancient, so steeped in years of wisdom, would sacrifice itself, or anything else to save the world once again.

Thousands of bows raised, the strings being pulled taunt. Every manner of feather color was represented in the arrows, each one marking a different night elf like a signature. The druids emerged from the forest, their wards holding steady. As light engulfed them, their formed twisted and changed into those of the beasts; mighty grizzlies, vicious stormhawks, flaming sear-tigers, sleek cheetahs, and more.

Explosions echoed as any Legionite foolish enough to enter into the forbidden forests were dealt with by the defensive spells. Dryads and sons of Cenarius the Patron Demi-god of the Forests himself, including the eldest and most powerful of the breed, Remulos the Keeper, had streamed into the night elves camps. Allies of all kinds had arrived of late. Uncorrupted furbolgs, kobolds hordes from their deep mines, and even dark trolls, ancient enemies of the night elves, had come. It was a gathering unlike any seen in ten millennia. Though the races kept separate, they eyed each other with certainty, each knowing that there could be not a step back. Every race in Kalimdor had come to know of the World Tree, and all had developed their own beliefs and lores as the years had passed.

"Light!" Shandris called out from the tower. Priestesses of the Moon ran back and forth down the lines, performing a ceremony that cast a thin line of magical white moonfire zigzagging across the front. The archers dipped their arrows into the moonfire, the fluid flame licking the points of the arrows. Such flame would destroy anything unholy. It was Elune's power incarnate.

Seconds passed, each like one of the many millennia Shandris had watched over these forests. She could see Jarod, muscular and willful. She could smell the scent of his skin and sense his presence beside her. She raised her own bow, pulling it taunt ever so slightly. Shandris felt her lover's spirit aid her, standing beside her as they pulled the arrow back together. And then his apparition disappeared.

"FOR THE LAND OF ETERNAL STARLIGHT, FIRE!"

The sky lit as ten thousand new stars filled it. The trees uprooted themselves as druidic spells were unleashed. Trolls, kobolds, furbolgs, dryads, and the myriad other creatuers of Kalimdor rushed forward in unison to meet the thousand variations of the Legion's ranks. Suddenly Shandris caught sight of Priestess Tyrande, silver light surrounding her. From her bow arrows of pure moonlight blasted forward parting the air in their wake.

The monstrous denizens of the Legion moved in lines up the hill, cutting deeply into the defenders of Kalimdor. Suddenly a primitive horn call rang through the din of battle. A pack of a thousand or so centaur broke through the trees in a pincer, opening their lines in a great concave crescent formation. The front, if it could be called that, had broken into a horrific killing field. Open battle, devoid of any orderly structure, raged across the fields at the cusp of Mount Hyjal's peak.

Shandris and a dozen of her best archers sniped out whatever moved on the chaotic plain. Tyrande's orders had gone out before.

_When the battle begins, kill anything you see as a threat. _Shandris had struggled for a mere moment. The Priestesses will was absolute. She knew what was best and just. For 10,000 years, against both the Legion and the vile Qiraji, Tyrande had nobly led the night elves in their goal to bring balance and harmony to the land. Shandris would give her life for the Priestess if she just asked it. If the night elves had any single leader, it would be her or Malfurion.

"General Feathermoon...I can't tell our troops apart from the demons...there's too much dust." One archer stuttered.

"Aim as far back as you can then! And do not stop!" Shandris shouted back. Arrow after arrow flew into the clouds of smoke and dust that filled the air. Ash was fluttering down like snowflakes from the burning forests.

Suddenly she saw hundreds of the centaur breaking and running with her keen eyes. She could easily make out their distinctive shapes, even through the gloom. Something up ahead was breaking them. A great winged demon flew from the skies, black magic flying from its fingers. The General of the Sentinels immediately recognized the form of Anetheron, second of the dreadlords only to his brother, the slain Tichondrious. She had dueled him once before, the the War of the Ancients amongst the wreckage of night elven civilization.

Shandris could still taste the crimes she'd seen and heard Anetheron commit. Atop all of those crimes was genocide and the reanimation of the dead. She could still see the lumbering night elf corpses, their silver and golden eyes turned horrible hues of green and yellow.

Taking careful aim, Shandris loosed a white-hot arrow. The missile burnt through the sky like a comet, but missed the target's main body, instead ripping through the thin membranes of his wing. Anatheron suddenly turned to her and broke off his strafing of the centaur. She felt their eyes lock from across the battlefield. Before she could even react, a lance of paper thin magic erupted from the dreadlord's nail. Ducking, the General barely missed the attack, the skin on his arms singing. Eight of her twelve chosen were instantly obliterated the moment the magic touched their mortal flesh, their bodies exploding into clouds of purple blood.

Before she could stand Shandris witnessed as the sky tore open. From the hole in reality was a hail of infernals, their numbers as unstoppable and numberless as a gale's rains. With widening eyes, she witnessed as one of the infernals hurtled towards the tower. The ground shook and the stones of the tower fell apart as the infernal boulder tore through the edifice like wet tissue. Shandris suddenly lost her footing, falling with the rocks. As the Sentinel General was culled to the ground by gravity she noticed Anatheron gliding across the canopy of the forest, pointing out where knots of mortal defenders were gathering.

She took aim, compensating for the wind and movement of her fall as predicting Anatheron's motion, and the general battlefield around them, and loosed another arrow, this one a simple tempered steel-tipped head. With precision and accuracy that had taken thousands of years to hone, the night elf's arrow found its way in a zipping instant past the heads of doomguard, in between the wings of harpies, hippogryph riders, and falling infernals, splitting the skull of Anatheron with a thudding crack. Justice had been meted. The dreadlord fell to the ground, rolling into a heap.

The ground was approaching quickly. The night elf tucked herself, somersaulting on a mound of stones and dead bodies. Bones were broken, but the bodies seemed to shield her from death ironically. Standing weakly, Shandris beheld the spectacle of what was finer than the greatest wine. It spoke more words than leaves that hung from Nordrassil. The images she saw were the terrors of childhood and worse, of the pent up fears of 10,000 years. It was overwhelming. It was not a fiction nor a history, it was not art and it was not emotion.

The battle was at its pinnacle; the world's climax had been reached. Black clouds had gathered all around Hyjal. Demons...millions of them, surrounded the mountain. It was as if the Nether itself had begun to manifest within the world of Azeroth. In the distance, the only light was that of the unearthly portals. More were opened every moment. The entire land moved with bodies. The defenders had pulled tightly into their circles of defense. Even the mountain's vaunted enchantments had begun to break under the number and power of the enemy.

Shandris looked down and noticed that her tibia was sticking right out of her leg, blood gushing from the compounded fracture. She was unable to stand. Pulling herself behind a fallen tree, she took aim while ignoring the pain at the nearest demon, the tree steadying her trembling hands.

"For Kalimdor!" She tried to yell, the cry coming hoarse from her lips. Her arrows continued to fly.

Somewhere Atop Hyjal

His guide pushed aside a bramble, all the while muttering curses in Darnassian that he couldn't understand. The troll High Shadows Priest towered over the night elves around him, standing at eleven feet tall. In his hand was a long staff. From the top of the weapon were dangling three skulls, each of a different race of humanoid, and twirling down the body of the wooden shaft was a single helix of purple.

He and his entourage entered a glade which seemed to be protected by several Ancients, the greatest trees of the forest. The stern, strange faces upon the trees paid no attention to the night elves or their troll.

A small ruin was in the center of the opening, a well of glistening, magical water within it. Wounded night elves were lined up in front of the moon well, a Priestess sprinkling them with the water that melted away their wounds. "My Lady…the barbarians wish to join us in the fight." A night elf spoke, disgust thinly veiled in her voice.

"How do joo' do, Tyrande-Holy Womon?" A thickly accented voice inquired.

"Dark trolls…" Tyrande wiped the blood and sweat from her face that had accumulated in her Priestess' last drive through the enemy lines. A radiance seemed to emanate from within her, and even the troll shadow priest admitted to himself she had a strange, ferocious, and alien beauty about her.

"Ha, that we are womon."

One of the night elf escorts barged forward, her eyes alit with anger. "You _will _show respect to the Lady!"

"What is your name, troll?" The Priestess asked.

"I am Thao Shpawn. I am Priest-warlord of the Shadowtooth Clan." He gave a grin, showing off his onyx-black teeth. In their tradition, infants were fed the fruits of the abyss to bleach their bones black.

"And you want to fight?" The Priestess asked bluntly.

"Aye."

Tyrande eyed the gigantic troll for a moment, hesitation from the centuries of distrust mentally blocking her.

"Very well, fight as you will. Just kill demons and stay out of the way of my Sentinels."

Thao chuckled. "If we wanted, we coulda killed yo Sentinels in an instant." The troll clicked his fingers. Instantly several dozen trolls emerged from the dark abyss, black and green clothing camouflaging their hides.

The night elves, save Tyrande, brought their weapons to ready.

"How?! We're surrounded by the entire Sentinel army?!" An archer exclaimed.

Tyrande studied the troll for a moment, who let out a low chuckle.

"Very smart. Then again, dark trolls always were the most intelligent of your breed." She spoke. "They used our confusion and our own senses against us."

Thao's lips curled back to reveal rows of filed black teeth in a hideous smile.

"I don't trust them at all." The same archer spoke. Tyrande had known this one for many years now. She'd been impressed by the woman's strength and judgment. Even though every night elf had their reservations about the trolls, Elunis seemed like one who could control her anger.

"True that we have warred with these creatures since the dawn of time, though we are of the same earth. It is only sensible that we ally ourselves with our worldly kin." Tyrande rebutted.

"Kin!? These monsters have tried to kill us for before you were alive, Mistress!" She brought her bow to bear, aiming it at the troll shadow priest.

"It is true, Lady Whisperwind!" Another night elf spoke up.

"Aye!" Yet another yelled in protest.

"We are in agreement! We cannot trust such creatures, especially these dark trolls! They are the craftiest, most vile of their kind!" Elunis spoke, her charisma even sparking a dull tone with Tyrande.

"Mah' people have been trashed around by YOU'S for 15,000 years an' you still haven't had enough, eh night elves?" Thao's voice went from anger to anticipation. No doubt he harbored the reciprocating feelings for the elven society. "You crushed our empires and cast us outta' our own land, leaving us ta' scrounge our livin's off of da' scummiest places on earth."

"Enough!" Elunis let her notched arrow fly faster than anyone could react. Four arrows from other night elf bows were deflected out of the way by a quartet of troll throwing axes, each from one of the expertly positioned warriors amongst the trees.

Thao simply waved his free hand. The arrow burned to a crisp in midair, its ashes flying in off in the same direction as his hand-swipe. Elunis reached for her knife, but before she could even unsheathe it the troll had closed the distance, smacking her in the face with his pole arm. The night elf staggered backwards, then threw her upper body forward, slicing three times at the troll. A shimmering shield of protection was instantly thrown up by Thao though, bouncing the blade harmlessly off of its surface. It had all happened in four seconds.

The troll spun around and raised the staff over his head with both hands. The air pulsed backwards for a moment before him and suddenly an airy, dark sparkle began to pop in and out of existence all around Elunis. In less than a second her flesh began to slough away.

"Shadow Word: Pain." Thao spoke vehemently. The night elf let out a piercing scream, her face melting off before she collapsed into the puddle of her gore. As she fell however, a small, unholy creature burst from the flesh at the base of her neck.

"A demon?" One of the night elves wondered out loud.

Tyrande took aim and incinerated the creature with a blessed arrow shot. It let out a quick squeal before meeting its demise.

"No doubt it was planted to prevent us from allying ourselves with others…and for spying. Elunis was one of my best." Tyrande said, pain in her soul.

_Another lost comrade…how many more of these 'spies' are there planted in the Sentinels?_

Thao took a disappointed look at Elunis. "…if you says so." He replied nonchalantly.

"You and your trolls are free to aid us in battle. Just kill every demon you can find. That's all I ask." Tyrande said, taking another look at her fallen friend.

"Hah, aye, we will. And we'll have some fun too."

Mount Hyjal, Legion Staging Point

Arthas Menethil lauded the strength of the Legion. They were far past what the Scourge ever was. Their sheer presence was inspiring. Had he any shred of a soul left in him, he might have even shed a tear in awe. The skies to the bedrock had all been affected. Every moment portals opened, numbers uncounted of the Legion entered. Such an endowment of magical weight and raw physical hegemony over Mortality...

The world's sinews were being shaken. The ground beneath Arthas' feet trembled. Even it knew what was about to happen. Arthas shifted. He wanted to jump into the action.

"_**Patience, my death knight." **_The Lich King's omniscient consciousness filled his mind like a cool flood of water.

A shroud of smoke rose from the forest below the mountain like a rising crown of purple and black, glittering orange and green with the flames below. Arthas pushed a straw-like strand of snowy hair out of his haggard face. Behind him was the Scourge. They had been denied the right to attack. The Legion did not trust the Lich King enough in this final act to commission his forces fully. Arthas did not blame them.

He, the majority of the liches, and those other with their minds in the Scourge, despised the Legion. They were slave drivers, using the Scourge as but a tool. The Scourge however, had such potential. Both Arthas and the Lich King saw more in store for their faction.

_The Legion would never expect an attack from their rear. We must stop Archimonde before he takes the World Tree. If he does, then what use are we to him?_

_**"Their undoing shall come soon enough."**_

_We are simply a tool for the Legion to gain access to this world. Our role is over as soon as he absorbs the power of the Tree. We should take it for ourselves._

_**"I have foreseen this all." **_

_Then how does it end? _

_**"It ends with me, and begins with us. Soon, you role shall come to fruition."**_

Arthas's dried and chapped lips ripped as his face contorted into what could have once been called a smile.

Mount Hyjal, Priestesses of the Moon Vanguard, Dawn

_Life is a fragile thing._

_Backing away from emotion, your senses, and living is the death of your soul. _

_One's soul is everything to them. The soul has no limits. _

_For a soul to die is for a person to truly die. For one with no soul, only mind and body, is the essence of so much evil. It has been seen before. _

Tyrande Whisperwind recited the phrases from a book that she'd read long ago on the philosophy of the joining of mind, body, and soul in her head. It was quite expository, especially in her youth. Even now, the phrases were calming, even though they might not hold as much meaning as they did then. She curled her lips upward, blowing locks of navy blue hair out of her face.

Her wounds had been healed, and now she was prowling amongst the frontline again, moving up and down, killing and killing. Violence was all that she knew that day. The tips of her fingers had even begun to bleed due to all of the stringing of her bow.

Her panther leapt into the air, twisting sideways as she tugged ever so slightly on the fur on the back of its neck. With perfect aim, she launched a sizzling barrage of white hot arrows into four enemies that were ravaging a cadre of centaur. It was strange to be working with such creatures, though she had not the moments to spare thinking of their eccentric alliances.

She and her priestesses swung through the demons like a mailed fist, destroying everything in their way and creating a path for their troops to advance through. However, when she came to her senses and her mind ran blank of the verses, she recognized her own exhaustion and that of her priestesses. Each and every one was panting heavily and wheezing, sweat covering their white togas and tunics.

_By Elune I hope you are almost ready Furion…_

The riders rode past a narrow cliff face to encounter a new attack that had sprung up from beyond the Protected Forests, where the Legion had somehow disassembled some of the enchantments and flanked the furbolg tribes.

As they passed by the cliff, Tyrande noticed the sheer amount of the enemy. Their force was beyond reckoning. No one person could count their numbers in ten years. It was a scene greater than any she'd ever witnessed in her many days.

The southern sky had turned black with the thick clouds of smoke from the burning forest. Amongst the flames moved the bodies of what seemed like the entire Legion, from the smallest narling to the greatest doomguard.

In the sky the greatly outnumbered hippogryph rider corps were fighting for survival amongst the outer bands of the smoky overcast. Atop the uppermost ridges of the mountain where the cold air tingled her lungs the remainder of the Sentinels and their newfound allies fought as well. They had not broken yet, but soon…Tyrande could feel, soon they would no longer be able to hold.

Though a wild fear coursed throughout her body, her façade remained calm. Her priestesses' mouths opened agape as they saw the spectacle; an utterly unwinnable battle. No, there was one way; Furion's way. The great druid had saved them all before, and if anyone could do it, it was him.

"My love…I am doing my part, please do yours." Tyrande whispered.

As her priestesses aided the furbolg contingent, an urgent message came from the front line. A great push had begun, one which no army could hold against. There was no sign from Furion that his plan was ready. There was no great victory, no triumph snatched from the jaws of defeat.

As they passed back by the ridge, she could see their work was for naught. The demons had broken through all of the mountain's great spells and enchantments. Even further below, by a couple of rolling hills where the burnt out remains of the orc's camp had been, a gigantic figure, eredar no doubt, waited and watched. Two burning eyes, filled with the deepest malignance and hatred she's ever seen, peered towards the top of the mountain.

For a moment, she felt as if they locked eyes. She was held down suddenly by the great pressure. The monster was wreathed in shadows from the dark clouds above, but she knew well enough that it was Archimonde himself, ready to march up the mountain at last.

Tyrande felt like her heart was five times too big for her chest. She recited the stanzas in her mind faster; as fast as she could.

"To Vigil Hold!" She cried out to her riders. Though the situation was very confused, Tyrande could feel that there they would make their stand. As they rode away from the furbolgs, sudden bouts of guilt struck her. They had abandoned the bear-people to their fate. They would simply be too slow to reach Vigil's Hold to make a difference, and so she'd decided to leave them hanging in the air to defend themselves.

She recited the stanzas again, blocking the thoughts out of her head. The priestesses rode through the clearing atop Hyjal to Vigil's Hold with great haste. As they approached however, she was shocked by the sudden sight her troops breaking and running.

They had never run before. The line simply melted before her eyes. The centaur were the first to go, followed by the trolls, who seemed to be attempting to break out and escape. Then many Sentinels began to turn and run. They were elite troops, trained and trained and trained again. Many had experience from the long wars against the Qiraji or even the Legion. How could they run!? Though a few held their ground, a great number, half or more, simply broke apart.

"Why?" She whispered. "After 10,000 years, how can you run now?"

She saw Thao slowly backing away, a trail of shadowy blackness inking the ground behind him and his trolls. Anything that crossed over the threshold was melted away like monster that had possessed Elunis' flesh had been.

"Priestess, we should relocate to a better location and attempt to rally who we can." A priestess spoke up.

"NO!" Tyrande exclaimed. "This can't happen again!" She moved forward, against the urging of her a priestesses.

"You, why do you run?!" Tyrande grabbed the shoulder of a bewildered archer.

"Pit lords! So many! We have no commands. It's chaos!"

_Shandris...are you alive? Are you alright?_

The crushing emotions and responsibility of the day, of the entire war, suddenly came down on Tyrande. She dismounted, gripping the archer's shoulder ever more tightly. She then raised a hand and sent a back-slap to the archer's face.

"YOU ARE A SENTINEL! YOU ARE EXPECTED TO ACT LIKE ONE!" Tyrande felt disgust and contempt for the feeble figure of the shocked and prostrate archer who looked up at her with wide eyes.

"Should you be alone, you fight as if you were an army!" Tyrande began to step forward towards the front line, or what was left of it.

"Should your comrade fall, you double your efforts!" She raised her bow and sniped a gargoyle out of the sky with the efficiency of a machine, ignoring her bleeding fingertips and torn nails.

"All civilization depends on you…ALL LIFE!" Before her was a raging cacophony of pit lords, more than fifteen in total. It was certain death to anyone except perhaps Furion.

The ground had been stained red, and the air smelled like fresh blood. Trees were splattered with the gore the pit lords had evoked on their brutal, eviscerating attacks. They were an unstoppable juggernaut, cutting through flesh, wood, and even the great stone giants whom had come to fight.

As Tyrande moved forward, the air around her began to thin. Scintillating silvers and whites also began to ebb off of her like a visible scent or aura. The natural glow within night elves shone forth with unmatched intensity, so much so that any who looked at Tyrande were blinded for the instant.

The pit lords stopped their gluttonous carnage to behold the light that approached them. The massive figures seemed to chortle and chuckle.

Tyrande felt Elune reaching into her body, filling her entire being like a ghost possessing someone. Power which she'd never felt was bristling at her fingertips. Behind her steps, green grass and flowers seemed to sprout abnormally fast. She knew now that she was more in tune with Elune than she had ever been, or ever would be. The Goddess had answered her prayers.

All eyes turned to the Priestess.

"_Bela nuun_!"

The light that hung off of the Priestess's body turned to sparkles, dissipating into the air. Suddenly, bolts of light like great falling stars descended from the sky. The attack was merciless and it was powerful; far more powerful than anything any night elf priestess or magician had ever done before.

Hundreds of fulminations, like thunder strokes from the heavens exploded onto the ground, blasting clear through the bedrock foundations of the soil. Each pit lord was pierced a hundred times or more by the lethal blasts, their bodies torn to bloody meat scraps and still the barrage continued.

As Elune's power filled Tyrande to heights greater than she'd ever imagined, the attack expanded. Tyrande was simply an anchor for the power, directing it with her consciousness. Solidified light tore into the ground and through the great swath of demons like cannons from above. The intense bombardment continued for a minute straight. As the light faded from Tyrande, she beheld a scene which frightened and awed her.

Hundreds of craters pocked the land before her like the surface of the moon.

"Elune's work…" Tyrande collapsed, her knees buckling. The toll of the spell on her had been great. Before she hit the ground though, two strong hands yanked her up, holding her steady. She looked up.

It was the archer from before. She did not look at her priestess, but ahead towards the reforming enemy.

"FOR TYRANDE! FOR ELUNE!" She called out. Hundreds, if not thousands, took up the call. Tyrande smiled before the light of the world was drained out, fading into a warm bed of cottony blackness.

Mount Hyjal, Ironeye Furbolg Tribe, Sunrise

"Ursoc and Ursol shall fight with us, in soul and being." A furbolg shaman spoke in Ursine. The others agreed. Danaan of the Barkskin Tribe sighed in relief. He had led his braves to the rock-and-tree-house of the night elves when the hunters had reported of the attacking demons. Danaan as Chieftain had sent his people to the Caverns of Underden while his greatest warriors prepared for the attack. Even his brother, Ulron, was participating.

Furbolgs of other tribes had gathered as well, intent on fighting for their right to survive. Braves from many furbolg tribes had arrived, all with the same burning desire, and with the blessing of the Gods of the Forest they could now fight at their fullest. With the braves assured and the shamans empowered nothing could stand against a combined furbolg attack. Behind Danaan stood the chieftains of the Timbermaw, Stillpine, Thistlefur, and Winterfall tribes along with their respective warriors.

Each paid their respects to him separately, and many furbolgs called out for their own blessings from him. Danaan had been a venerated warrior of old, one of the greatest hunters and heroes of all the Tribes. He had won the Gauntlet in his youth, besting the culled greatest of all furbolgs in the trial of manly strengths.

"The Gods have given us their Covenant! We bring honor to our ancestors and people, even in death!" Danaan shouted out.

The furbolgs lifted their spears above their heads and growled and screamed in fury and eagerness. Each one of the spears was a different color, made from different woods, and decorated with different feathers and trinkets a furbolg prove-ling found along his Proving Trials when they passed from cub to fully adult bear.

"For Ursoc and Ursol! For the Ancestors, for the Forests, and for the Earth! For family, for pride, the ideas of old and new, maul the invaders! Feed them to the Forests!" Danaan shouted out, the thick gray hair on the back of his hide standing on end. He twirled his respective spear above his head, the sound of its ivory tip whistling in his ears. Hot air blew from below in the thick pine forests. They stood upon the brink of the forest, where Mount Hyjal's peak suddenly dipped into the ancient volcanic basin where the World Tree was located.

The ground shook and the skies darkened in the second coming of night. Demons, untold legions, attacked. Danaan lept forward with the power of hundreds of pounds of thick, hard muscle. He swirled with incredible agility, surprising two dog-like demons with a leg swipe, his long claws tearing into their soft stomach's flesh causing their bowls to rupture and fall out. To his side he saw a fellow brave thrust his spear. Danaan bent his already arched back further towards the ground, the spear sailing only centimeters from his fur. The weapon found home in the chest of a more humanoid demon, one that resembled a malefic night elf...one of the satyrs, the enemies of the Forest.

The beast grabbed the spear and thrust it through his body, dragging the furbolg, Danaan recognizing him now as Iielo the Bristlejaw, closer to him. With a wicked smile, the satyr's body imploded sending terrible energy through the air in a sphere of destruction. Danaan managed to crouch behind a rock, but as the magic subsided and he peered across the battlefield, the only things left of the powerful Bristlejaw were his bone-spear and skeleton.

With a roar, Danaan pounced forward on all fours, knocking the satyr to the ground. With a single pounding of his jaws with its hundreds of pounds per square inch, the satyr's face was ripped off and its neck broken. Danaan lifted his bestial head and filled the air with a victorious cry, gore running from his black lips.

The world was orange and red and green and black. Flames had begun to eat away the fresh underbrush and forest canopy. Everywhere he saw his furbolgs falling. Dozens had been felled already.

The furbolgs were unbending, their line overrun and cut up. Danaan and his braves were pushed to the bases of trees where no enemy could attack from behind. Blood, red, green, purple, and black ran down the sides of the mountain.

Whether it was hours or seconds that passed Danaan did not know. With each wave of demons, with each fallen comrade, a memory seemed to stream through his mind and into oblivion. Soon, he was left with but his raw animal instinct. Soon, there seemed to be none but him left.

The night elves that had been on their flank were suddenly gone. They had disappeared. Someone called out that they had abandoned the furbolgs to their fate. Danaan cursed them.

His muscles burned and bones ached. His once proud gray fur was stained with the blood of furbolg, night elf, and demon. His eyes half lidded with exhaustion, Danaan noticed another demon, this one a stark difference to those before. With a barreled chest and bony plates upon its head, Danaan realized it was an eredar. These monsters had been told of for generations since the Great War in the Dawn Times. Their power was great…they were the ones that had corrupted so many furbolgs.

With renewed energy, Danaan leapt to his feet and rushed at the eredar. Before he could make it though, a wall of fur emerged before him. Sleek, sharp claws tore his chest open. Danaan fell to the ground. The wall of fur lowered to all fours, the head coming down.

"NO!" Danaan shouted out. "NO!"

The furbolg that had attacked him was his own brother. Horror began to engulf him. He could only tell via scent however. The face of his blood-bond had been scarred heavily by the evil powers of the eredar like so many others. Anguish, rage, and humiliation filled Danaan.

His own family...turned forcefully against him.

The monster which had been his sibling attacked again and again leaving long deep ravines in the flesh of Danaan who had not the heart to counter attack. The eredar laughed. The howls of mirth echoed deep into Danaan's soul. RAGE! FURY! VENGENCE!

The demon had offended him to his very core; it had stripped him of honor and bonds.

_FORGIVE ME, ULRON!_ Danaan found his spear in his hands, his courage in his heart, and the will to do what had to be done in his mind. The spear twirled forward. The body of Ulron pounced upwards. Danaan used every last ounce of strength in his frame to jump upwards as well, impaling the smaller body of his brother. His momentum did not stop there however. With such weight and power, Danaan and the corrupted form of Ulron were carried forward as if in flight.

Danaan could see behind the flowing fur of Ulron the eredar's expression sour from joviality to confusion to surprise and horror. He did not expect the furbolg to attack one of his own, at least without thought. The spear pierced the eredar as Danaan and the corpse of his brother hit the ground. The attack was too off-center though, only grazing the demon's midsection. Putrid blood spilled from the wound, sending tendrils of smoke into the air as it seared dirt, leaves, and scrabble.

Danaan released the spear, letting Ulron drop to the ground. Before the eredar could react, he grabbed the creature by the neck, intent on slowly squeezing the life out of it until it begged for mercy and writhed.

"Eredar do not surrender!" The creature spat, its voice by magical means translating to Danaan.

"That is because no one needs you alive." Danaan used his prized strength to crack the monster's neck with a flick of his paw. The life in the eredar's eyes faded. Shadows moved around Danaan, encircling him.

Amidst the piles of bodies of friend and foe, Danaan, past and present champion of furbolgs, roared in anguish. He was, after all, too weak. All around, his enemy continued to close in.

Vigil Hold Eastern Ruins

Broll Bearmantle panted, his back rising up and down. He and his contingent of druids and Sentinels had been cut off from the main force for almost an hour now. The endless legions of undead and demons had taken their toll, but somehow his fighters strove onward.

To his right, blood splattered and tired, was his daughter, Aneesa. Before the two lazily marching up the hill one of the Legion's leaders, a pit lord named Azgalor. Azgalor had come, like so many others, to Kalimdor 10,000 years ago in the First Invasion, and participated in the destruction of night elven civilization. What made him so famous however, even among the denizens of the Mortal World, was his sheer power and ferocity, neither of which even his former King, Mannaroth, could match. Tons of muscle and build made for one of the pound-for-pound strongest beings in the known world.

After the last attack had been repelled, Azgalor, impatient, had marched up the hill himself. Now, with dozens around them dead, only Broll and his daughter stood between the demon horde and the summit of Mount Hyjal. Several hundred Sentinels and a dozen or so druids were behind the two, each more tired than the last. They would be of no use when the next attack came…

"Aneesa…you need to get out of here." Broll spoke in a grave tone. He knew it was the end of the line.

"Father, I won't simply abandon you. I refuse to." His child answered, strong-willed as ever, even in the face of certain death.

Broll smiled. She'd always been a wild one. He wondered if she had the power that he had been promised ever since he was a child, growing up with gigantic, fabled antlers that spoke of the future prowess of his abilities as a druid. Disappointingly, he had always been average.

Broll's failure had eaten at him for many years, even as he slumbered in the Emerald Dream. The thoughts of the Dream drew his attention momentarily to the Idol in his left hand. It was an extremely powerful artifact gifted to him by none other than the son of Cenarius, Remulos. He'd never been able to fully draw on his abilities using it though, making it another one of the failures on his long list.

"You know I cannot account for what is about to happen?" Broll whispered to his beloved daughter.

"Of course…it is my own will." She replied, headstrong. Broll let his emotions calm. Though she was his daughter, she was a fully grown woman, and strong too. She was one of the highest ranked Sentinels under Shandris Feathermoon, and a warrior in her own right, even learning a spell or two from the Priestesses of the Moon.

"YOU ALL, RETREAT TO THE SUMMIT! WE SHALL HOLD THIS BEAST!" As the druids began their withdrawal they poured the last of their power into the earth, awakening the trees themselves. Hundreds of treants rushed towards the massive pit lord.

With a single swipe of the hated blade, _Spite, _if that was still its name, the treants were all blown away. Azgalor growled deeply, the vibrations shaking Broll's chest cavity. Fear punctuated his exhaustion. How could he, a merely average druid, stand up to such a monster? The very air around him seemed to grow heavy with the presence of Azgalor. Topped with his fatigue from fighting for hours, Azgalor's very image seemed to compound everything and multiply it by two. The druid very nearly fell to his knees.

"For Elune!" Aneesa suddenly howled, tossing her rune-powered daggers forward. Azgalor did not move, simply letting the weapons hit him. They were deflected by his thick hide, barely even scratching him.

Broll let the power of nature wrap him in the shape of a striding cheetah. If there was one thing he was particularly good at, it was shape shifting. He had always excelled in the one art. Closing the distance, Broll jumped twenty feet into the air, morphing into powerful bear in mid-air. He mauled at the demon's chest, deeply engraving his deadly claws into Azgalor's armored breast-plate.

_The armor—is too thick! _

Broll fell to the ground deftly, changing back into a cheetah. He dodged an incredibly fast blow by the pit lord, the sword cutting him across his front paw. He stumbled backwards, the sheer air blast from the swing knocking him off balance. He returned to his normal form to find his enchanted leafy cloak in tatters, having absorbed the worst of the blast.

_Power and speed and armor! _

"Aneesa, we—" Broll shouted. He was cut off in mid sentence when suddenly Azgalor, with a scream, launched himself off the ground with a powerful wing flap that bent the trees backwards with the force of gale winds. His sword burst into flames. He swung again, this time decapitating whatever tall foliage remained and lighting the very air on fire.

Broll ducked and rolled out of the way of a falling tree; leaves, branches, trunks, and the like fell back to the earth writhing in green flames. Aneesa was hit by one of the thick logs, pinning her to the ground.

"Aneesa!" He shouted out.

Before he could move to aid her, Azgalor returned to the ground with an earth-rending pounding. The land split beneath his mass, throwing Broll to his feet as well. As he fell, the Idol of Remulos slipped out of his hand, falling to the ground with a clutter, rolling towards Aneesa.

"**A powerful artifact you have there, druid.**" Azgalor spoke for the first time. The Idol began to glow green with the strength of the Emerald Dream. It sensed the torment of the land as the soils of Hyjal washed over it. The Idol pulsated with power Broll had never seen before. Azgalor lifted _Spite_, taking careful aim.

"Aneesa! Take the Idol!" He shouted out desperately.

His daughter reached out, but found her reach too short. Before she could try and lift the log off of her back, Azgalor's blade swung downwards, cutting deep into the mystical Idol. Broll's world became green light for many seconds afterwards as an explosion lit up the sky, fel magic from the frosty, acidic blade of _Spite _mixing with purity of the Emerald Dream.

When Broll came too, there was nothing left before him but an empty, barren landscape. Several yards away he spotted the motionless body of his daughter. Magical burns covered most of her body, and smoke rose from the carcass. He limped over to her, checking for vitals, and any possible sign of life. She was gone…passed from the earth the moment the pit lord's blade hit the Idol of Remulos. He hugged the lifeless body.

Suddenly Broll felt a deep awakening within himself. Beyond the sudden grief and realization of his own seed's death, beyond reason and madness, a power lit up within himself; his destiny had finally arrived.

Unconsciously, Broll let go of his daughter, tears streaming from his golden eyes. He stood and turned to face Azgalor who stood in the same position, apparently in shock from the sudden explosion. Slight burns marked his face and arms, but other than that he seemed to be in nigh perfect condition.

The druid dug his hands deep into the loose, hot soil of the ground. Suddenly massive vines emerged around Azgalor, leeched from the fallen flora and fauna as well as every available mineral in the ground for hundreds of meters around.

The pit lord was entangled in thousands of thick vines, each as big as his muscular arms. He struggled with a grunt, unable to escape from the living prison. Broll then thrust his left hand upward, the fingers caked in dirt. A slab of pointed rock shot out of the ground, piercing Azgalor's belly. The pit lord howled in pain.

Broll lifted both his hands and the vines grew and grew, lifting even the heavy Azgalor into the air, twisting into an even more intricate and complex system. Broll then attempted to shift into a stormhawk, but suddenly found his ability gone…he could not wrap himself in the power of nature! A mental block suddenly stopped the flow of power from his core druidic abilities, giving Azgalor the chance he needed.

"**Enough nonsense!**" He used _Spite _to slice through the vines and fall to the ground with a thud. He surveyed the scene in silence.

"**Lord Archimonde approaches. I will let you live for now, you troublesome creature, if only to see your Armageddon. I can think of no crueler punishment!**" Azgalor laughed as Broll collapsed to his knees. The moment was gone, and his druidic power seemed to be sealed deep within him in a place where he could not reach.

_Was it the destruction of the Idol?! Why can I not use my power? All my efforts, my training! Aneesa!!!_

Broll collapsed, the pain of his failures stinging more than ever. After a long while, Broll slowly picked himself up out of his near catatonic state, lifting the charred remains of his daughter, and wandering slowly off into the wilderness of Ashenvale.

Little did the druid know of his promise, of the meaning of his great sacrifice, and of his great roles to come, for the future held much for Broll Bearmantle.

Mount Hyjal, Pinnacle

Archimonde had begun his final ascent. He raged unstoppably through the already caving defenses of the remaining mortal races. To the left and to the right ants buzzed by him. Most ran in fear, and those that did not lived not long.

There was a single thing in his vision now…the World Tree; Nordrassil as the night elves had named it. It alone held the power that would elevate him beyond the beyond. It would break the Triumvirate and let him reign supreme over the Legion. Then, the universe would be his own thing.

Furion Stormrage however, yet breathed. As long as Stormrage was alive he could not fully advance upon the World Tree…there was some kind of trick. There always was with his old enemy. No matter what it took, he _would _draw Stormrage out of his hiding.

His size now was that of a giant's; he stood hundreds of feet tall, his full power finally channeled completely through the portals from the Nether. Nothing upon the earth could stop him. This was a feat even unaccomplished during the last Invasion.

He ran rampant through the remains of the night elves pitiful defenses, crushing their puny castle with two stomps of his massive feet. With simply a look, mortals turned to ash or were contorted literally inside-out. The arch demon felt an irritation.

He advanced until he reached a certain gateway. Before the summit was an aura which protected the World Tree. Its focal point was at the gate before him. A purple-silver moon glowed within the woodwork of the gate doors.

"**Come you night elves! Where is the passion and the fire with which you fought so long ago?**" He shouted out at the fleeing mortals.

More death enveloped the fleeing night elves. It was pathetic. Suddenly however, a very familiar figure emerged from behind the trees before him.

"**Stormrage…**" Archimonde hissed, steam seeping from his lips.

"Archimonde." The druid acknowledged, his hands clasped before him. He was much the same as before, albeit a wiser, more experienced being, the arch demon sensed. If anything, he was more powerful than before.

"**At last, my final obstacle has appeared. I will leech from your Tree what I must and then grind this world into dust. I WILL BRING **_**VOID!**_" Archimonde's arm flew downward toward the druid at the speed of sound, thunder echoing as it cut through the air.

Somehow the druid managed to bring his staff to bare, raising it above his head. A thick barricade of stone twenty meters thick burst from the bedrock, absorbing most of the impact. Archimonde's attack blasted the stone wall to pieces, sending boulders tumbling down the mountainside.

"You have become impatient over the years, Voidbringer." Furion mocked.

Archimonde laughed, his bellows rending the land before him. "**Stormrage, you will die**."

The tiny figure of Furion looked up into the eyes of the arch demon. The battle was about to end.

Furion Stormrage stared across an open distance at his opponent, Archimonde the Defiler. The being that stood before him was truly godlike. Not even the dragon aspects would stand a chance against him.

The druid made the first move, whipping his staff in an arcing motion. Buzzing bugs, by the tens of thousands, appeared in vast clouds that mirrored the smoke stained skies. The stinging, wracking, annoyances covered Archimonde.

Archimonde retaliated by releasing an aura of magical energy around himself which fried every living thing within a certain radius. Purple flames erupted all around him, engulfing what little was left around them. The demon turned to Furion, held out a hand. In it appeared a lance of crackling energy.

"**Behold, Longinus' Halberd!**" Archimonde cried out. "**This is a fitting end to you, Stormrage. No mortal has ever seen this power, nor shall any ever again! This was the power with which Sargeras himself destroyed a Titan!**"

Furion's eyes opened wide. The power within Archimonde's hands was truly incredible. The druid's eyes watered with tears at the sheer strength of the Halberd. In its ferocious luminosity Furion could see the end of worlds and gods. It was a weapon befitting Archimonde.

Furion called upon the earth to conceal Archimonde, the waters of the aquifers coming together instantaneously to create mud with the dirt. A sudden, massive tidal wave a hundred feet tall erupted from the topmost point of Mount Hyjal and careened downward. As the wave passed by, Archimonde stood stalwart, slashing the massive influx of mud in half with his halberd. The shockwave from the weapon's cut slashed through the top of the mountain, sending a plume of debris high into the air, touching the lowest cloud layer.

The druid retracted from the now moist and muddy ground the water he'd gathered, setting it about Archimonde in a great cloud of fog. With the power of the sun, the arch druid instantly superheated the water into boiling steam. The land grew quiet for a moment.

"**Despair and perish, druid!**" The halberd was swung downwards out of the steam. The resulting explosion blasted down all of the ancient, gnarled trees on the same side of Mount Hyjal. Jets of blue flame exploded from the ground. As the conflagration subsided Archimonde beheld a wasteland of blackened glass obsidian. Stormrage was not in sight. Without a doubt, he had perished.

"**This is almost too easy…if I had known the mortal resistance would be so weak, I would have launched this invasion centuries ago!**" Archimonde's weapon, still piercing the side of the mountain, fizzled out of existence. The demon smiled in his victory. "**At last, the path to the World Tree is clear. Witness the end, you mortals! The final hour has come!**"

With a single bash, he destroyed the gates. The last protection of the World Tree disappeared, and Archimonde stepped within the forested basin itself.

Mount Hyjal, Summit, Seconds Later

Cold air from the mountaintop blew across the arch druid's exposed skin. It was time. All the elements were prepared, and the pieces in place. He had now only to unleash the signal.

He had narrowly escaped by transforming himself into a bilian beetle, digging deep into the ground quicker than possible for any other creature. Emerging from the soils of the forest, in his full form again, Furion calmly paced towards the best lookout point he knew. He would need to oversee the exact moment when Archimonde had fallen into his trap.

"Yes, now our victory is assured." He said as he felt a familiar figure in the wood ahead of him. The cloaked man, the Prophet whom had brought the Mortal races together in their great alliance, stood stoically upon the ancient and withered statue of a dragon, erected in honor of the great Aspects. "Archimonde's victory here has made him overconfident. He will not notice the trap I laid for him until it is too late."

The figure of Medievh said nothing, instead opting to stare out over the still pristine woodland of the basin of Mount Hyjal. Only a single taint marred its natural beauty, and that was the figure of the eredar marching smugly through it towards the towering World Tree. Furion looked out over the canopy of the army of redwoods and other pines.

This place had been the same 10,000 years ago the World Tree's seedling had been planted…

_The massive Alexstrasza explained. "__**Taken from G'Hanir, the Mother Tree, this seedling will raise a new tree, one which will bind the world, mend in time its suffering, and bring it the balance we could not."**_

_The great red waited until Nozdormu clawed at the earth upon a small isle in the middle of the Lake. She rested the seedling in the trench, and Ysera the Dreamer covered it in dirt._

"_**To the night elves, as long as this Tree stands, I grant strength and health**__." Alexstrasza spoke._

"_**Within this Tree is the promise of continued immortality to the night elves, so that the years will not touch them, and they may learn evermore**__." Nozdormu proclaimed._

_Next came Ysera, who explained that the night elves would be given the gift of the Dream for their efforts in vanquishing the Legion. She promised that those who would follow her and her kin in their path amongst the Emerald Dream would be able to gain the strength of both the Waking and Dreaming worlds, and that their power would guide Kalimdor for as long as they stood by their word._

_As the dragons leapt into the air with great gusts of wind, each pouring their own power into the seedling, a small tree began to sprout, its roots spreading like vines. As the days went on, it grew greater and greater, becoming Nordrassil the World Tree. _

"Now the time has come to give this power back to the world." Furion said. He realized by now, even without looking, that he spoke to himself. The lonely figure of Medievh had vanished from the crown of the dragon's statue.

Memory and emotion filled him for a moment as he looked over the ancient timberland. Hundreds, no thousands of great redwoods and pines, their needles prickly, trunks sticky with fresh amber, stood against the march of time. The sky, morphed by the diasporas of war, shined with an intense beauty.

The gentle breeze continued to slightly rustle the trees, who remained in their long slumber, unaware of the wars and chaos of mortals. The sun's rays beat through the weakening clouds in the eastern horizon, lighting the sky with hot pastel pinks and yellows, royal purples, and outlining the clouds with a definition of glowing, hot orange. Above the western horizon, beyond the smoke stacks, the last stars of the sky were twinkling.

Archimonde then appeared in his vision. The fate of the world and the balance of the universe was pressed upon his shoulders. If there was a such thing as fate and destiny, they had undoubtedly brought him to this place.

A sense of extreme calm and placidity fell over Furion. In all his years, he had never felt as assured and prepared as he had now. It was as if he had truly become one with the world, if only for the moment.

Archimonde had made his way to Nordrassil. He touched the tree, a vision of ecstasy on his face. The arch demon dug his claws deep into the ancient bark of the world's greatest life form and began to climb towards the heavens with the sounds of scraping and tearing. A laugh, the first Archimonde had uttered in 10,000 years, erupted.

The druid reached down for the fabled horn that was slung around his neck.

_Cenarius…_The first teacher of the druidic ways had long passed, but his will lived on in this horn. Furion raised his head, his great antlers, greater by far than any other druid's, reached high into the sky, piercing it. Furion's golden eyes looked upon the visage of life. It was indeed a miracle. He had long striven to understand that miracle, had lived in the Emerald Dream for uncounted years beyond the waking world, had loved and lived, been wounded in body and mind and soul, but even after all those years he still could not comprehend the truth.

For a moment, Furion Stormrage understood. He brought the horn to his lips, took a deep breath, and then exhaled. The moment passed, but it left him all the more intrigued. The sun's rays passed around Furion, his shadow cast long across the forest canopy.

The great sound, a melody that resounded throughout the earth, echoed through the valleys and to the mountain tops. It passed over the grasslands, snaked through deserts, dived into the depths of the oceans, glided through the air and roamed through all the world's forests. The enchanting mantra entered the most ancient tombs and even the greatest volcanoes. The dirge of Cenarius' horn was heard in Northrend, Kalimdor, and the Eastern Kingdoms. It was heard in the tropical isles of the Great Sea.

The feather-and-leaf cloak on Furion's back was flung into the air by a sudden gust of cold wind. Nature itself had been awakened. It was a primal force, something not created by even Gods or Titans. It was the law of the world, fully aware of the present.

The night elf stood in awe of the sight before him. The antithesis of nature, Archimonde, had climbed to the top of Nordrassil's base. However, he suddenly recoiled as if in pain.

Before Furion, one, then two, three, ten, a hundred, a thousand, hundreds of thousands, millions of wispy spirits, the mysteries of nature, had gathered from across the world, speeding toward the World Tree as if called back home. The bright spheres of energy circled around Archimonde and Nordrassil, completing their revolutions quicker and quicker with each passing moment.

Truly, the Legion was not a power that waking mortals could fully defeat. Furion had understood this since the beginning. It was his mission to fully awaken Azeroth, to do what none had done before. It was the only way to save everything.

Archimonde tried to slap away the wisps, but more and more appeared until the night elf could barely even see the World Tree or Archimonde through the swirling column of light. The eredar lurched backwards in agony, a light within himself bursting forth from his chest, sending molten globs of his armor across the landscape.

The demon's arms were ripped outwards, outstretching to the maximum. He let loose a bellow of frustration, anger, and pain. The cry rippled the clouds themselves as Archimonde was lifted off his feet, rising to the height of the leaf-line of Nordrassil. More blue-white light erupted from within the eredar.

In a blinding flash, Archimonde, Voidbringer, Destroyer of 10,000 Worlds, The Defiler, Left Arm of Sargeras disappeared. A shockwave of flame spread outwards from the epicenter of the flash, burning everything in its path.

Furion bent down before the blast of hot wind pushed him backwards, able to regain his footing by planting his legs into the ground with roots. The quick blast burned the entire forest away, leaving nothing but charred trees and a heavy snowfall of ash. The worst was yet to come however.

Furion looked up, beyond the once great forest that was now in flames. Around the World Tree there were no longer any wisps, nor the body of Archimonde. Instead, blue energy unevenly circled the base of the tree like a disorientated halo.

"It is done." The druid spoke softly as the halo grew brighter. The tree began to succumb to the great energy that circled it, disintegrating and reverting back to the magical properties from which it had been created. The last great Tree was returning to its roots.

A final explosion covered the land. Where the flames did not reach, the light did. At that time, all in the world was illuminated by the same brilliant ray. The spirit world, the physical world, and even the Emerald Dream were covered.

For that time, that fleeting moment, there was no shadow. The epitome of Nature, of the Light, of all things good and holy, shone brightly. Soldiers in the Eastern Kingdoms, weary and sorrowful, saw it and wondered with hope. Night elves, tauren, orcs, and all the others in Kalimdor beheld it and basked in its glory, knowing that their victory was at hand. Even the Lich King, in all its conniving evil, read the sign as the world's savior. No longer would it be destroyed at the hands of the alien Legion.

Creatures across the world were stunned. Deer, confused, looked to the skies where the light had come from. Bears, fearful, returned to the safe darkness of their caverns. Fish from the deepest depths saw for the first time such light. Nothing was spared from the image and feeling.

The demons in their great number were stunned. Those closest the explosion, and subsequent implosion, were instantly obliterated, the horrible magic that flowed through their bodies extinguishing as it canceled out with the World's power. The greater whole of them were forever erased from existence.

As the calamity, no, the miracle, ended, mortals across the world stood. Atop the blackened statue of a dragon, the arch druid Malfurion Stormrage too, stood. The sun had lifted into the sky, bathing the world in its familiar golden light. He beheld below him the remnants of the forests of Hyjal, which had sacrificed themselves for the World.

Before him lay the shattered remnants of the land; scars of the wars of mortals, as if a living reminder of their sins. However…

Furion bent down, falling to his knees. He placed both his hands on the earth, feeling the life and energy teeming within it. The World Tree was gone, nothing but a hollow stump miles across remaining, but still…but still, the world marched on.

Stormrage could feel the gifts of the Aspects fading within him, though it was alright. Everything had come full circle; the past, present, and hopefully, the future. The druid raised his head.

"Thank you." He spoke in a low voice, grasping the earth and letting it fall between his fingers.

There was much to be done; old hatreds to be soothed, the Legion's remnant to be cleansed, forests to be re-sown and so much more. Stormrage took his first steps into a new age, confidently marching down Mount Hyjal. He would return soon to help it heal. After all, he was the world's Sheppard.

A new world awaited.

Somewhere Overlooking the Remnants of the World Tree

The smoke was passing, and the day had come to fruition. Hours after the battle had ended, the disoriented, disorganized armies of the Mortals had counter attacked, scattering the last of the demons deep into the forests of Ashenvale and beyond.

The lone figure of Medievh watched as the opening acts of the new era played out. It was hopeful. There was also much work to be done before anything could be resolved fully.

He looked out over the broken landscape.

Confidence exuded in Medievh. Looking towards the burnt stump of the World Tree, already Nature had begun to reclaim its prized possession. Roots, thick, green, and fresh had begun to emerge quickly.

The Last Guardian turned from the battlefield toward the virgin forests. In his mind, the world's shaping was set. He disappeared just as mysteriously as he had appeared…Prophet, Guardian, The Oracle, and more.

Walking away from the future, now as a simple old man in his tattered cloak, his words resounded with the wisdom of the all his predecessors and more.

_The roots will heal in time, as will the entire world. _

_The sacrifices have been made. _

_Just as the orcs, humans, and night elves discarded their old hatreds and stood united against a common foe, so too did Nature herself rise up to banish the shadow…forever._

_As for me, I came back to assure that there would be a future; to teach the world that it no longer needed guardians. _

_The hope for future generations has always resided in mortal hands. And now that my task is done, I will take my place amongst the legends of the past. _

**End of the Final Act**

(Hey everyone! My God, what a trip it has been! Three and a half years of trials and tribulations have led to this point. I feel a sense of accomplishment, but also one of sorrow, in that such a project which I have toiled for and loved over these years has come to an end. Thank you all so much for sticking with me and praising my work. It is fans like you that keep me at it. Your input is legendarily valuable for me, and your support mythically rejuvenating.

As for a Frozen Throne novelization, I am going to say that at the moment, I am not going to continue the story into that game. I have had many other project ideas that have accumulated over the past few years that I wish to pursue, however, I will undoubtedly return to Frozen Throne at some time in the future. You have my word.

I hope you have all enjoyed my final chapter in the story of the Third War, and I do apologize for not getting it out earlier. I am quite sick and full of school work, but hopefully that won't slow me down for much longer. There is a final extension to this story coming which will resolve the open plot points left. This epilogue is going to wrap up more than three and a half years of work, so any reminders as to open ends will be thankful so it doesn't take me too long to look through the story.

Once more, thank you, and I hope you enjoyed our epic journey through the Third War. Until next time everyone…

-Omegatrooper)


	45. Epilogue: Legends of Azeroth

**Epilogue: Legends of Azeroth**

The Twisting Nether

An everlasting darkness stretched before the pit lord Azgalor. This was the Void, the realm between worlds. Beyond it thousands of stars glittered like gems in the impossible distance.

A ribbon of ever changing, chaotic magic rippled through the space of the Void as well. The ribbon changed hues of color every few seconds, from green, to yellow, to pale white. This was the Twisting Nether. Upon one branch of the hellish band of magic, Azgalor stood in complete fear; an emotion he rarely experienced save for moments like these.

Before him was Kil'jaeden, the Deceiver, Right hand of Sargeras, First in Tier of the Legion. The figure of Kil'jaeden, a twisted, sickening version of what was once that of an eredar, stood hundreds of feet tall, black wings enveloping the space behind him.

Hellfire erupted from below the demon lord, a conflagration of molten sulfur and brimstone giving off such an intense heat that Azgalor felt as if his flesh would simply boil away. Red, yellow, orange, and blues seemed to erupt like steam at the crimson feet of the Deceiver. The space around Kil'jaeden was wavy with heat.

Like a flaming torch in the darkness, lost moaning souls were attracted to the heat and light of Kil'jaeden like bugs. When they got too close however, they would be incinerated like everything else around him.

"_**Why are you here, Azgalor**_**?**" Kil'jaeden's voice emanated from all sides like an omnipresent force. Its tone, pitch, and frequency all spoke of the incredible ancientness and darkness of the figure.

"The Legion has failed, my Lord." Azgalor spoke, hearing the quivering in his own voice. To an extent, he was held in awe of Kil'jaeden even more than Archimonde. The Deceiver was even more cunning, ruthless, and manipulative than the brutish Archimonde.

Azgalor's eyes turned to the side for a moment where he saw the Currents of Hell, great streams of the souls of those worlds conquered by the Legion who floated below the Nether's paths. These were the ones unfit for assimilation and those who had dared to defy the Legion. They would pass through the starfire and the absolute cold of the Void, and after thousands of years of helplessness in the streams, would pass into the unexplainable realm beyond even the Void; the Great Dark Beyond, where nothing existed. Truly that was hell, if not here.

Azgalor shuddered. His eyes turned back to Kil'jaeden's, meeting the probing face of the demon lord for only a moment. Simply facing Kil'jaeden made it hard for the pit lord to breathe. He imagined himself floating on the Currents, the endless agony and insanity…

"_**It is as I foresaw**_**.**" Kil'jaeden responded.

"My Lord?" Azgalor questioned, taken completely aback. He immediately regretted the words leaving his mouth.

"_**It is no matter. We have waited for millennia. What is but a few more moments**_**?" **Kil'jaeden's thunderous voice rattled Azgalor's armor.

"But Lords Archimonde and Haures…we have been dealt a severe blow." Azgalor could not understand why the demon lord was acting so calmly in the face of the Legion's greatest disaster and shame.

"_**You are no longer required here**_**.**" The Deceiver said. Quickly, Azgalor backed away. Kil'jaeden's arm outstretched. Fear coursed through the massive bulking creature.

The pit lord turned, feeling the coolness of the Void on his face. He wished to be far removed from this place. From deep in the Twisting Nether a ghostly soul was plucked by the demon lord's power. The long and sinuous essence glowed such a bright purple that Azgalor had to look away to avoid being blinded.

He slowly turned. Kil'jaeden was paying no attention to such a lowly thing as him for before the Deceiver stood the apparition of Haures. Azgalor's eight eyes opened widely.

"_**So you were hiding**_**?**" Kil'jaeden asked in a neutral tone.

"**Hiding? No, merely recuperating.**" Haures answered. It was clear his spirit too had been damaged. It was without its former power and presence. What foul force had been responsible behind the demise of one of the Legion Lords themselves?

"_**I will not hear such prattle. You are weak now, and so you fear erasure." **_

Haures was silent.

"_**To be slain by a mortal. Your shame must be unbearable." **_

"**The insect was armed with a weapon of the Titans. Even you would have been damaged by such a blade." **The humiliated demon lord retorted.

"_**One should never underestimate an opponent. Azeroth has now defeated us twice." **_

"**But Archimonde—" **

"_**He is…out of the picture.**_" Kil'jaeden said, letting the sentence hang. Azgalor gulped. He knew what was coming.

"**Then the Legion looks to us for guidance. Even chaos must have some order." **Haures said, hope in his voice. 

"_**Incorrect." **_Kil'jaeden said. "_**It is I who will lead the Legion now; alone, atop the peak. The Burning Legion will never follow such a failure." **_

"**What? You cannot do such a thing!" **The fallen Lord screamed in rage.

"_**Long has this Triumvirate sought to break itself. Now…it has." **_Kil'jaeden's lips turned up in what Azgalor guessed what a smile. Rows of serrated black teeth gleamed with firelight and the twisting green of the nether.

Azgalor felt as if something hit him. Despite his proximity to Kil'jaeden, he felt coldness creep upon him.

"_**You **_**planned this?" **Haures said incredulously.

"_**Why do you think that sword was upon the soil of a backwater world like Azeroth?"**_

Haures' face contorted in anger. **"And Archimonde?" **

"_**I let his ambition consume him." **_

"**While you watched and waited. Damn you Kil'jaeden! Xir xir isi sier aix izir zxxirl!" **A gale of wind kicked up as Haures cursed. Azgalor had to place his feet firmly down as not to be blown away, off the edges of the Nether and into the abyss.

Kil'jaeden reached for a blade that hung at his side. It was Gorribal, former sword of Sargeras himself; the Broken Blade. Haures was held down by an invisible force, unable to move. Suddenly, he stopped struggling. It seemed as though he had realized something.

The flames around Kil'jaeden exploded upwards, engulfing almost the entire body of the Deceiver. He looked more like the living embodiment of flame now than anything else.

"**He—he said he knew who would end me! End this…damn him, and you! DA—"** The cries of the once powerful Legion Lord were silenced forever as the Broken Blade of Sargeras descended upon his feeble and crippled soul.

Azgalor turned and ran, knowing full well that the one and only Lord of the Legion would be much displeased if he remained any longer.

Ruins of Dalaran

Anduin Praeton sighed, breathing in the smoky, humid air. The stench of bodies surrounded him, and he could not seem to escape the grasp of the smell of decay. He looked out at the lands below his lookout point.

To the east and west, at the bases of the mountains, lay the remains of the Combined Armies. He'd split them into two camps along more defensible lines in case the Scourge forces north of Lake Lordamere and the river Averass attacked.

Campfires dotted the land as the purple sky brightened. Several watchtowers had been erected in the ruins of Dalaran. The battle had ended, but at such terrible cost. In the land between the two camps, the thousands of slain and wounded still remained. Hospitalars and nurses went through the sweeping landscape of the Casted Vale searching for any survivors.

Anduin sighed and took a swig of the stale water in his skin. He sat cross-legged, watching dawn. It had finally ended. It had been a year of madness, and with such loss. It was folly to think of this battle as 'victory', though the men had needed a victory. The world had needed a victory, and so they had given it a battle that would never be forgotten.

"Sire, Grand Marshal Garithos is approaching." A man with a bloodied bandage wrapped around his head announced.

Anduin stood, thanking the man. _Of all the generals, of all the men to survive the battle, I had to be stuck with Gavinn Garithos. _

Garithos had emerged from his hiding place in northern Lordaeron in the spring, descending upon the newly reformed Combined Armies with ambition. He claimed that he was one of the true Lordaerel, fit to command his country's forces. In his mind, Lordaeron had never fallen. It had merely succumbed to a series of foolish defeats at the hands of a few cowards and opportunists.

How he did not see his own reflection…the irony of it all.

He saw Garithos' massive black war charger clamber up the steep slope of the hill followed by twelve Knights of the Order of the Golden Chrysalis. Each one rode on a stallion of white and midnight black. Both the stallions and the knights atop them bore heavy plate armor of charcoal grey. In each of the knight's chest plates was an insignia of their own design, along with scrollwork wrought in amber. Beneath their plate, golden dipped chainmail was visible. Their lead held a triumph banner which bore a yellow sunburst across a scarlet backdrop. The Order of the Golden Chrysalis had been one of the few knightly orders not to be absorbed into the Alliance military in the Second War.

These thugs were Garithos' personal entourage. Though they hid before the façade of honor and justice, each one was but a brutal murderer…or so Anduin had heard. There had been rumors of their rapes and pillages as Lordaeron fell. Garithos had apparently used them as his shock troop, to quell any rebellion against his command.

However violent and evil the men behind the armor were, there was no doubting their strength. They had been at the van of the breakout that allowed Garithos to escape from one of the few islands of Alliance power left in northern Lordaeron.

"Greetings, Lord Praeton." Garithos spoke in his usual arrogant, posh tone.

"Hail, Gavinn Garithos." Anduin replied, readying himself for what was to come.

"I want you to consolidate your Stormwind troops to the north of Dalaran. From there you shall prepare a task force to probe the Scourge's defenses upon Fenris Isle." Garithos ordered.

Anduin's demeanor turned from preparatory to seething. "Last I checked I was a Lord General of the Combined Armies. I don't take orders from you." He had known such a power struggle would occur at any moment.

"Alas, you are but a Brigadier General, given a field command by the now wounded and recalled Marcus Jonathan, who was my own equal—I outrank you, and you ought best to realize that." Garithos replied, looking down his long nose from atop his horse.

Anduin felt red anger boiling within him. "You wish me to lead my bedraggled countrymen whom suffered the brunt of the frontal assault on Dalaran across the Averass, across Lake Lordamere, to merely _test _the strength of the undead on an island which means nothing to us strategically? We do not even have boats!" Praeton repeated exasperatedly.

"My men are needed elsewhere. 'Twas not I who decided the order of battle; that was decided by our war council. Your troop will gather what supplies you must and _build _your boats."

"We have no knowledge of naval enginee—" Anduin was cut off.

"The contingents under your command are to follow my order to the lickspittle; do I make myself clear, _Brigadier _General? I will not brook questions to my authority. We will re-conquer Lordaeron, but to do so, all available force must obey a single, executive voice. I am that voice."

Whatever Garithos had deluded himself of, he held great sway over the Lordaeron men who made up the bulk of the army. He was indeed a true Lordaerel, and was popular as such with the human troops of the northern continent. There was no way Anduin could dispose of Garithos and hope to command all of the forces here. They would simply splinter off, even if his reason was legitimate. That would leave the Alliance utterly destroyed on the continent; an unacceptable outcome.

Humiliated and mortified, Anduin Praeton accepted the order. He was now subordinate to the so-called _Grand Marshal _Gavinn Garithos. Unable to look at Garithos without the urge to draw his sword and slay the man, Praeton turned toward his troops.

Stormwind had suffered greatly in the battle, and it was clear that the new Grand Marshal attempting to wrap his tentacles of influence around them as well, being the most unreliable force in his new army. No doubt he meant to split up the troops from Stormwind, and spread them around the army as not to risk them plotting against him. Nearly half of their 50,000 had fallen in the fighting, but apparently it was not enough reassurance for Garithos.

Praeton returned to camp and relayed the order to his men. With groans, the battle weary soldiers of Stormwind took to gathering what supplies they could for the task ahead. For the remainder of the day they scavenged in Dalaran as man what abandoned hulks they could find in the river Averass, their strength so little that they could not even hope to chop down the trees from the forests to the west.

By the time the sun had begun to set, Praeton and the labor shift he'd ordered up collapsed amongst the ruins of the Theddian Library, which was once home to the world's greatest collection of books, poems, scrolls, and manuscripts. Most of those works had been burned as Dalaran was crushed by the Burning Legion.

Anduin peered around. Everywhere were ruins. Great spires, the greatest in fact, all lay amongst the rubble. What had once been streets teeming with wizards and children were now pathways of ash and broken brick.

Suddenly, Anduin was broken out of his exhaustion induced stupor. A band of figures approached from the setting sun. Their weapons and armor glittered like emeralds and veins of gold. They each wore long hair and walked with an unmistakable stride; they were elves. Anduin summoned the reserves of his energy and stood to meet the oncoming band.

As they neared, Anduin realized that their appearance was nowhere near as glorious as it had appeared from afar. They were covered in the soot and dried blood of recent battle, and seemed every bit as tired as his soldiers. Their weapons were chinked, and their armor was dented and scratched. Many of them bore heavy bandages.

"Hail, Anduin Praeton of Stormwind." The lead elf spoke, slightly bowing his head. A cascade of blonde hair poured down around his face as he did, nearly covering his extended eyebrows.

"Hail, Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider of Silvermoon." Anduin replied, bowing his head even deeper as was customary for elven nobility. He stood in awe for a moment, amazed by both the fact that he was in the presence of Quel'thalas royalty, as well as the aura that the elf exuded.

"What brings you here, sire?" Praeton asked.

"We are simply passing through. We have been ordered by Marshal Garithos to clear the mountain pathways of undead and demons." Kael'thas said, pointing toward the looming giants in the backdrop of the ruined city.

"With so few of you? There could still be thousands of stragglers in those passes! Or worse, they could be laying in wait." The general was horrified at such an order.

"Alas, there are few enough of us as it is, though it seems that Marshal Garithos would break us apart even further. It helps not that he sends my elves into certain doom with every new mission…" Kael's voice turned bitter.

"…though with every return we surprise him, even if more of our comrades have fallen. It is almost worth just to see the look on his face—I mean no disrespect of course." Kael suddenly gathered himself, realizing that he was talking to a subordinate of Garithos.

"Do not fear, master elf. We share the same dislike of that man." Anduin agreed.

Kael'thas nodded in seeming relief. He then sighed, as if he bore a weight on his chest far more than physically possible to bear. The inner light and beauty that Anduin had seen elves give off in the past seemed somewhat tarnished—blunted, in these ones.

"Sometimes think he means to kill us all off. As if we do not have enough enemies and problems. Very little do we meet sympathizing people such as yourself."

Anduin was taken aback somewhat. "Well, it is true that humanity has always seen the elves as isolated, and…somewhat snobbish. I think that when your father left the Alliance, many of us felt betrayed as well."

"Is that so? I suppose we did not think of the repercussions well enough. Nevertheless, I am here to offer the Alliance the blood of my people once again. But it seems that our sacrifices are never quite enough. We simply do not have any more to give. Quel'thalas is gone…the Eversong Woods are ash, and Silvermoon is a gutted memory."

Kael'thas seemed to sink into the depression he'd been hiding for a long time. "I should have remained to fight with my father, but instead I was here in Dalaran. Even this place, a second home to elves, is now gone. And without the Sunwell a weariness I have never felt sets in. We grow weaker every day."

The sun's last shining burnt over the horizon. Anduin tore his gaze away from the ruins of Dalaran and looked north.

"There was once a young man who lost everything to him. His family, his home, and everything he knew. That man became a refugee and ran away with those of his people that could escape the tide that had flooded his lands."

"They were led by a great man, whom became a father to all those whom had lost theirs to the green surges that frothed from the unknown. They fled a far away land, alien to the young man; the people in that new land were not kind at first. They were different, and their traditions were different. They ate different, spoke different, and some of them didn't even believe in the Holy Light!"

"But these people grew on the young man. When he came of age and the rising tide crashed upon the shores of this new land, he took up arms and served under the Father whom had led his people to the promised place to protect its people."

"He fought and fought, and in the end found a new home. Now, I have lost that home again. But I will not give up! I will fight and fight, as I have for most of my life, to defend it and recover it!" Anduin exclaimed, unsheathing and pointing his sword north as his speech passionately rushed out of him. The moment of emotion passed, and Anduin felt weary again, though with more hope than before.

Kael'thas stared at him, smiling slightly. "That was quite poetic and inspiring, General; would that all my elves could hear such a thing."

Anduin felt he was in a somewhat awkward position. He was a hundred years the junior of Prince Kael, though in many ways he was more mature than him. Perhaps it was because elves were truly different after all, or maybe it was just because he had simply seen more in his life, forcing him to adapt quicker.

"Nevertheless, it will be up to you to lead them, Prince. They look to their leader. You must repay the blood of your fallen with the blood of your followers. It is a tough choice, but such are all in times of war."

"Yes; our blood for theirs." Kael'thas seemed to taste the phrase for a moment, tucking something deep into his mind. "Indeed, blood it shall be. Thank you General. You have lifted my spirits." Praeton felt a sudden chill run down his spine as Kael's face contorted with a deep set torment. It was only a moment though. Just a moment!

Kael'thas roused his troop and headed off with a short bow in his elven gesture. Anduin watched as the elf disappeared into the dark mountains. As if an epiphany, the homeless General felt as if a deep, wide destiny lay before Kael'thas.

He turned back to his forces and shook his head. Gavinn Garithos would not exploit him like some used handkerchief. It may be later than sooner, but eventually he would force Garithos to recognize the equality and strength of his men. The aging man stretched his muscles and headed back towards camp, bringing his men with him.

A cool breeze bathed Anduin Praeton's face in a calming splash. Autumn was coming, and with it the cold. There was much work that needed to be done, but Anduin knew from what he'd seen here that there were secrets to the workings of the world he'd never understand. He would simply keep going in the flow, and do his best to make a difference.

A new day brought new life; Anduin smiled, and steeled himself for the work ahead.

Ashenvale, Astranaar, Twilight

"So the last of them have left our forests?" Furion Stormrage asked, looking around him at the destruction that had beset Ashenvale.

"No, not all; a faction of the orcs remain in the southern approaches. They refuse to leave." Tyrande spoke, sipping on the herbal tea that steamed from a wooden cup before her. The drink had long been a staple in night elf society.

"It would seem much is left to resolve." Furion sighed. "Felwood churns with evil, and strange news reaches my ears of strange cults upon the Darkshore."

Shandris Feathermoon directed a battalion of Sentinels from a cot outside the shade of the redwood the couple was standing under. She'd refused to leave her duty, even after being gravely wounded in the last battle.

Several figures led by the demi-god Remulos, Keeper of Moonglade, appeared before Shandris. She pointed them to the direction of the redwood. As the group neared, Furion recognized each and every one of their dozen numbers.

Remulos led; his familiar visage, so much like his father Cenarius', brought nostalgic memories of the long lost epochs. Behind him came Fandral Staghelm, physically the strongest and most hawkish of all the druids. Ysiel Windsinger, and Neldn Mar'alith bowed deeply as they saw Furion. The rest, save Remulos, followed suit.

"The Cenarion Circle has been gathered by your summons, Shan'do Stormrage." Staghelm spoke, his face an eternal scowl. "We have a great many issues to discuss."

Remulos stood up straight, and silence fell. All eyes turned to him. "Most important of which shall be the eminent return of the druids to the Emerald Dream. Furion Stormrage, what is your answer?"

"This world is so beautiful." Furion spoke after a momentary silence. "It is worth dying, and suffering for."

Tyrande stared at her mate, a smile on her face.

"I have seen beyond the waking eye, into what might have been. I know what has occurred, and seen the differences between the Emerald Dream and reality. Though the truth is sometimes harder to bear than a dream, it is its uniqueness…its fleetingness that gives it true beauty. It is never static."

"I have borne witness to the rising of mountains and the falling of civilizations. I have seen the stars align and change, the animals of the wild live on in their countless generations, and felt the land's suffering and replenishment."

"Much of this I have done whilst sleeping, the wool of the Emerald Dream pulled over my eyes. It is time for me and my brethren to tend to this wonderful place once again. We will rest no more. The world needs our stewarding and the forests our healing. I believe Ysera and the Dream may wait for a while. The druids will remain." Furion announced.

He had long pondered what he was to do after Achimonde was defeated. Seeing the destruction and chaos however, he could never leave his people and the world unattended.

"Very well. It is decided. The druids shall remain amongst us, if only for a while longer." Remulos said, a slight smile appearing at the corner of his purple lips. The gigantic half-stag half-night elf turned and disappeared into the forests with a quick gallop.

Tyrande stood and planted a passionate kiss upon the lips of Furion, his beard tickling her face. The two embraced under the silver moonlight. The Circle departed, leaving the two lovers to each other.

As the night passed, a moment of silence finally befell the lands. Above, the moon shone unimpeded, carrying Elune's love and grace to a world that had at last found its peace.

Banks of the River Averass, the Next Day

Osra and Cyrus stood on the muddied banks of the river Averass. Abandoned craft and flotsam choked up the upper river east of Dalaran where the Dogs of War had attacked from. A few whirlpools were kicked up behind the unmanned hulks, but otherwise, the water gently washed downstream

A heavy sun beat down on the land, plastering it in a summer heat. Wispy mare's tails clouds streaked through the blue sky. The land south of Averass was distinctly livelier than that of the glades and meadows north of it where the Scourge's plague had begun to even effect the land.

The two watched as a small canoe carried away the body Valdar Justax. His body, once so lively and energetic, lay still at last. He still bore his armor, though a velvet blanket covered his grievous wounds. His white face, square and long, topped by a mat of chestnut brown, seemed to reflect the peaceful heavens.

As the canoe passed them by, Osra tossed a flaming torch upon it. They had soaked the canoe with oil, so it instantly erupted into flames. A long gust of wind suddenly picked up, and the flaming canoe seemed to be carried away gently into the distance.

A tear rolled down Osra's eye. She wiped it with her sleeve, feeling utterly lonely. She felt as if she had been betrayed by the world, as if some sick God had personally taken to torturing her, though her story was not unlike others. She suffered as many others did.

Cyrus understood this, though he'd finally come to full fruition of the knowledge of one enlightened beyond the thinking of a mortal. Many things had become clear to him now, after everything that had happened.

"He will be carried to the sea. He will exist in the freedom which he sought to create." Cyrus spoke.

Osra looked at him with her blue eyes, water still gathered at the edges. "What did you do with his blade?"

"I sealed it away where no man may find it." Cyrus replied. He'd used a reversed polarity spell to open a pocket in the space-time to a realm which the Excubitores had used to place their items. It had been known to them as the Vault, which hid many more of their secrets than simply a Titan-forged blade. If any of them had survived Dragias' catastrophic attack on Haures, he would hunt them down and kill them before they had a chance to raid the Vault.

"Good. He knew it was not a weapon to be used by people." Osra turned back to the sight of the disappearing dot of fire.

"Indeed." Cyrus was silent for a moment. So much had happened, so much was yet to happen, and so much was changing as the two stood there on the banks of that river. "What shall you do now?"

Osra was quiet until she could no longer see the fiery pinprick. Then she turned to him, the tears in her eyes gone. She had buried it all deep inside. "I will not rest. I will not sit still. I bear no love for anything anymore, but I shan't remain and rot. No, Valdar would not like that. I will carry on his will."

"Oh? And what does it tell you to do?" Cyrus asked, his interest piqued, for he too had decided to follow the fallen man's word.

"I will free our lands, and our people. Fighting is what I do best, and I won't stop. I don't care if I am hurt, but I won't die. If I can't right the world's wrongs, I won't be able to see his smiling face anymore." Osra's voice trembled.

Cyrus grimaced. "That is a difficult burden to carry, Osra of Lordaeron. Your quest shall never end, and your prize will never come; doing such a thing will not return the man you loved, nor your family, or the world to the way it once was."

"Valdar carried that burden, so I will now." Osra replied, buckling her armor tighter. "I have heard there is a contingent of soldiers following Mograine of the Grand Cathedral to the north on a crusade. Perhaps I shall join them. Perhaps not. I will let the wind carry me."

"Very well. I do not believe our paths shall cross again, but it was an honor to meet you. You are a brave and intrepid soul, Osra. I hope with all my heart for you to find your answer, and for you to complete your journey. May the Traveler in you be fulfilled before the end, and may you accomplish all. _Alah nu, dus eks nechinus_." Cyrus spoke his elven goodbye and kissed his index and middle finger, planting them atop Osra's crown in a blessing.

"Thank you for everything." The young woman said. "For helping him carry the weight, for helping me give him a proper end."

Cyrus turned and did not look back. He knew that Osra had turned north, her mind unable to look to the future until it had found its past.

"Know that you are not alone…" Cyrus said. _I too will carry his promises. He inspired me. I will work my own interpretation of his will, and deal with the darkness that lingers upon, and beneath, this world._

Those simple words alleviated the pressure that seemed to sit on Osra's chest. No, her journey was yet to begin, but at least she knew that somewhere in the world, one was with her. Someone was thinking of her. The female warrior smiled as she began wading across the river to the dream of audacious hope. She aimed for the beds of bright flowers on the opposite bank.

Cyrus prepared himself for his own, long journey. He wasn't sure if he would survive it, nor if he would be able to safeguard the world, but there were too many things to be done before a premature end. The trees whirled beside him, and the mountains sang with whistling wind. A place where he'd long given up on still remained, and a joy which he'd forgotten was replenished.

As the two parted, the wishes and memories, both spoken and unspoken, of Valdar Justax went with them. Though to be greatly forgotten, the man's actions, disciples, and dreams would continue to shape the history of Azeroth. Truly, this was a legend and myth to arise once again, and inspire the masses; a legend of bravery, of sacrifice, and of eternal endurance…a legend of Azeroth.

The Barrens, One Month Later

"Then we shall part here." Jaina Proudmoore spoke. Her lips were chapped from the dryness of the Barrens.

"And where do you intend to settle your people?" Thrall asked, sitting on a rock surveying his surroundings.

In the distance, safely away from the columns and caravans of the Alliance and orcs, a small herd of gazelle grazed peacefully. Even further away blue mountains shot up into the sky, behind which he had heard from Cairne was the land of the tauren; Mulgore.

Cairne had taken his Bloodhoof warriors back to that place. He promised to return once he set order to the Plains and rallied the tauren to push out the centaur once and for all. Of course, the Horde would lend its assistance when that time came.

In the air a vulture circled. On the ground, golden grass swayed alongside short, squat trees for what seemed an eternity. A rattler snaked its way through the tall grass, careful to avoid any bipedal hunters. This was a good land; a hardy, beautiful land. It was a place that his people deserved.

"We spotted some good land on a marshy coastline to the south where we first landed. It should be more than suitable for us." The sorceress replied, her shining blue eyes looking southbound.

"Are you sure that those marshlands are habitable enough for your people? Especially with so many?" Thrall asked.

Jaina turned to him and smiled. "Worried?"

Thrall was taken aback for moment. "Your people might be angered and other throw you. They might invade my new lands." He spoke tactfully, thinking quickly.

Jaina laughed. "Do not fear, Warchief. There are many great isles beyond the marshlands on which I intend to settle. We still have a great many warships tethered in coves there that we left behind on our march north. We can utilize that navy and control the channels between the islands and the mainland."

"Those islands are lush and promising. There we can make our new start."

"The same words are true for us as well." Thrall answered gruffly. "Still, there is a long road ahead of us."

"Indeed. My ambassador will stay with you to keep us in communication." She said, motioning to a mustachioed man that stood in the background yelling at cart drivers. "He used to be a merchant in Boralus, though he knows orcish quite proficiently. I think he's quite qualified."

Thrall let out a brief smile. The red faced man reminded him of his trainer when he was a slave in Durnholde Keep. He had been one of the few kind souls in a cruel place.

"Very well." Thrall stuck out his hand in the customary human manner.

Jaina surprised, smiled, and completed the handshake.

"Until next time, Proudmoore." Thrall said, turning back to his people.

As the two parted, the columns of the population of the refugees of Lordaeron and the orcs broke further apart and went their separate ways. They did so not under the force of a greater enemy, and not with weapons in hand.

The two sides, tired of war and hate, departed in peace, ready to help usher in a new generation and world.

Alterac Mountains

Wind howled through the snowy passes of the Alterac Mountains. Jagged peaks jutted into the sky, spearing it without abandon. Atop a glacier the cloak of a lone high elf stood vertically straight as the wind snapped it backwards.

The figure made his way through the blizzard, barely able to see in front of himself in falling snows. His left knee gave out. The elf crumbled to the ground, the snow rising to his hips. Before he fell face first, his hands held him up.

"I am Alaric Faltron'Quel! Duke of Tranquillen, heir to the most ancient and wise people in the world! The blood of the Sunstriders flows through my veins! I will not fall to this folly." He wheezed, pushing himself back up.

There was a long road ahead. Many things had been made clear to him of late. He'd seen the fall of his homeland firsthand, how its forests had burned and its people were put to the sword. There had been that crushing moment when he'd been given a choice to save a life, or die along with his beloved city of Silvermoon.

Before his waking eyes he could still see the city burning on the horizon. He could smell the sea spray as the boat tumbled amongst the waves of that stormy northern ocean. He could still hear the stifled and muffled cries of pain, both physical and mental. The whiteness before him only made it easier as a canvas to paint such a picture.

Suddenly the ice below Alaric's feet cracked sickeningly. He looked down with sudden apprehension. The ground rumbled. Something below him was moving. He began to break into a full sprint, despite the snowy path ahead of him.

Behind, a massive wyrm exploded from the glacier's encasing ices. Its flesh hung in ragged scraps. The monster had been resurrected not long ago. The decomposition had been slowed by the temperature and climate. It was a frost wyrm. Magical flames colder than nether-ice erupted from below Alaric; the elf jumped backwards, flipping and landing amidst a patch of hardy lichen that survived clinging to the rocks.

_Even here, hm? _Alaric turned. The lumbering beasts spread its massive wings, the span reaching more than a hundred feet across. They leapt into the sky roaring with a shrieks that struck terror into any normal soul. These wyrms were even larger than normal.

Before such beasts, any normal man would flee. Any sane man…

Alaric laughed. He drew his sword, the heirloom of his family; Quel'Barrer. It glowed with a fantastic golden brilliance. He then ran _towards _the wyrms, who themselves were descending upon him. They both unleashed their frosty breath in a tidal wave of azure magic. Alaric ducked down into the snow, covering himself with his magic-resistant cape.

The avalanche of death passed him by as the wyrms pulled up from their nose dives just short of the ground. Alaric emerged from his cocoon of safety, ice breaking off the edges of his cape and armor. From his fingertips, flame emerged.

"_Ashel thuradas_!" A ball of fire appeared in his palm, melting the snow around him. The frost wyrms came around for another pass, almost entirely obscured by the blizzard. As the lead wyrm pulled in front of the other, charging its next attack, Alaric blew on the flame ball. The attack expanded, growing into a phoenix-like form. The creature he'd summoned howled as it crashed into the wyrm. The wyrm exploded into flame and smoke and steam, spiraling to the side and crashing into the face of the vertical sheer cliff face nearby.

Alaric grasped the sword with both hands, culling the remaining wyrm closer. The creature approached with terrifying speed, intent on crushing him. Just before the two collided, Alaric again ducked, and then with all his might, jumped upward directly into the wyrm's underbelly.

His sword struck true, ripping a gaping hole in the undead monster's belly. The wyrm crashed to the side, skidding down the glacier until a its tail caught on a hole. Alaric was thrown backwards by the speed of the collision, almost falling off the side of the glacier itself. He caught himself with the blade, digging it deeply into the ice like a climber's axe.

With a deep breath, he pulled himself back up and descended to the still thrashing wyrm. It was wounded and unable to get up, its legs broken by the fall. Alaric nonchalantly walked up to the wyrm's head. He looked into the beast's unnatural eye. Lifting the sword, he thrust it down into the dragon's skull. It was done.

Alaric threw back his head and let out a long yell which echoed off of the cliffs and mountain peaks. He would make it come full circle. He knew his destiny.

"ARTHAS! I AM COMING FOR YOU!" The elf screamed, raising his arms in the snowy desert. Soon, his time would indeed come. Soon, his war would begin. The lonely silhouette of Alaric Quel disappeared into the whiteness of a new era.

Stormwind, Azeroth

Marcus Jonathan stood atop the altar of the Cathedral of Light. Archbishop Benedictus in his flowing golden robes placed upon his cheeks the Salve of the Luminary. The prayer continued.

"May those who return not to us remain in our hearts; for the Light allows us to see them in ourselves; in our actions and our words. For those that return, we give thanks and rejoicing; we share our warmth, food, and water." The Archbishop's soothing voice filled the huge chambers of the church.

Light shone in from the massive windows, the largest ever created by men. It was reflected again and again, concentrated and brought to specific places of holiness in the church to create an ambience. Ever there was light in these places, either from the sun, stars, moon, or fire. To these places people would gather to give communion to the various Saints, the latest of which was Anduin Lothar. His statue loomed large near the fore of the building, dressed in the vestments of a holy man. The work had taken ten years to complete by the most skilled artisans and masons, so lifelike and grand had it been.

The mass took much longer than Jonathan remembered to release. He was tired from the long ride home, and his wounds drained him of much energy. As the procession of Stormwind's greatest noblemen filtered out of the Cathedral, Marcus sat upon one of the willow benches near the fountain of Archbishop Faol.

The city, so great and fantastic, had been spared the wars of the north. Refugees streamed in day after day, but other than the increased numbers in the taverns, inns, and streets, life seemed almost the same in Stormwind. It was strange; as if no one understood what had truly occurred. Of course they hadn't. They weren't there.

They hadn't seen the demons of the Nether rip apart columns of men like wet tissue. They were not there when the dead rose from the fresh battlefields, not had they seen the ghost towns of Lordaeron. Pain filled Marcus Jonathan's wounds. They were bad enough for the doctorate to send him homeward, but not bad enough for him to perform the traditional Ceremony of Homecoming. Bah!

Suddenly, a warm hand clasped on his shoulder. He looked up. It was Varian Wrynn, King of Stormwind.

"Black thunder, you looked miserable up there old friend." Varian spoke wryly. Young, gray eyes shone forth with electric knowledge and ambition, and a mane of dark hair tumbled down the back of his cerulean king's robe. The two had gotten to know each other at the end of the Second War, when Marcus Jonathan had been assigned to the new king's honor guard.

"King Varian, we ought to return to the Keep. The nobles are continuing with their petitions to revoke your new agricultural policy." A black haired beauty spoke. Marcus had never seen her before. He dress was clearly that of a noblewoman's, but it was markedly different from the styles of the Stormwind aristocracy. It was black dragonscale, and low cut on her chest, revealing quite a voluptuous pair of breasts. The curves on her body were all accentuated as well, each one flowing brilliantly to the next.

Varian looked at her with deadly annoyance. "Not now Katrana Prestor. Bother Bolvar Fordragon if you have something new to ask for. I will attend to your, and the noble's desires to talk when I am done here!"

Marcus attempted to tone out the conversation. He had no love for the politicking of nobles and sycophants.

After a few more lines that seemed to calm the king and get him to listen, the woman called Katrana Prestor seemed to smile slyly for a moment, bow, and disappear in the direction of the Keep.

"Hail the victorious dead." Varian spoke softly, turning back to Jonathan.

"Aye. To the victorious dead."

The old friends stood amongst the hustle and bustle, the King's Guard keeping everyone at a safe distance. Varian helped Marcus to his feet.

"I can walk, your majesty." Marcus began to walk alongside the king. The two passed through the various districts of the city, passing through the trade and holy districts. Roofs thatched with multicolored woods and paints gave the city a vibrancy seen rarely in the world's metropolises. The wonderful and beautiful public architecture given by the masons who'd rebuilt it still shone like new, the public servants at work every day to keep them clean.

Bath houses, aqueducts, forums all adorned the city, though Stormwind had its darker sides as well. Not far from where the two walked, past the boroughs of the bourgeoisies and growing middle class were the shanties and dark alleyways where vagrants and thieves lived. All of it culminated into a flavor that was wholly different to anything in the world, past or present. Stormwind had become more than just a city since its rebuilding; it had become a symbol, a nationality, and a word of pride.

"I have heard a great deal about a certain Jaina Proudmoore and those she ran off with during the middle of the war." Varian said with loosely disguised disgust. "They may have been used to now re-conquer Lordaeron."

"Sire, they might also have been slaughtered by the demons or undead. We cannot change the past, nor can we hope to do the impossible. I tell you now, attempting to raise another army and invade Lordaeron would be a waste of a great many lives. For now, we have no hope of taking it back." Marcus replied as straightforwardly as he could.

Varian grunted in disapproval, but also nodded in understanding. "There will come a time when we do though. In the mean time however, I must find reestablish what I can of the Alliance and bring pride back to its nations once again. We were so close from losing it all."

"Stormwind itself would be a ruin were it not for the heroic defense at the Thandol Span." General Jonathan spoke.

"Aye." The king agreed. As they passed under the massive statues in the Valley of Heroes, the King changed the subject once more to Jaina Proudmoore.

"I will have to find this girl and establish communications with her people. We must reincorporate them into the Alliance one way or another. If it is true that there is a land beyond the Great Sea…" The king's voice trailed off as he watched in awe the statues of those heroes.

"I have a proposal for you, old friend." The King said. "Though it may look it, we are not as safe as many think. Orcs emerge from Blackrock Mountain alongside evil dwarves. The lands around Grand Hamlet seem to be stricken with a strange malaise, and even the seasons seem to be getting colder, harming our crop in Westfall. Dark times will soon be upon us, and Stormwind needs a defender."

Marcus Jonathan knew what the king was going to ask. His mouth went dry.

"You are to be Stormwind's first General-Commandant since Anduin Lothar. Congratulations." Varian smiled. For a brief moment, Marcus glimpsed tiredness and the pressure of the kingship behind the smile and the king's grey eyes.

"Thank you for the most gracious offer milord, but—"

"You are the most qualified man. We will need you in the days to come. "Yes, sire." Marcus replied, voice hoarse.

"You will watch over this city, and honor these statues." Varian spoke, waving at the heroes of the Alliance beset in stone.

Marcus nodded, beholding those whom had held up the Alliance and its people in their darkest hours. It seemed to him as though more statues would need to be added in the wake of this new war, but that was all to come in time.

For now it was time to rest and recuperate, to lick wounds, and prepare for an uncertain future.

The Great Sea

Great black waves frothed back and forth in the storm. The sails of the dark ship whipped around in the gale force winds. Like minaret's, skeletons and ghouls stood upright at the edges of the ship unaware of the imminent danger.

The vessel was a harbinger of doom, a container of death incarnate. Upon it, near the bow, Arthas , first death knight of the Lich King, betrayer of his father and people, rightful Crown Prince of Lordaeron planted his legs firmly. Frostmourne, the runeblade that had corrupted his spirit, was grasped tightly in his hands, pointing towards the horizon.

His cold eyes surveyed the tumultuous seas. Beyond the clouds lay a band of light. That was the end of the storm beyond which lay his destiny. The wrecked lands of Lordaeron poked up above the sea not too far past the Maelstrom.

Arthas Menethil was returning to claim his crown.

**Timeline of the Third War**

**_Spring, 614 (Years of the Light)_**

_Early Spring_

The Plague of Undeath begins to spread across northern Lordaeron. Kel'thuzad heads the Cult of the Damned in infiltrating echelons of the Alliance.

The orcish Horde under Thrall departs Lordaeron.

The Prophet, Medievh, interrupts the council of King Terenas. His warning is unheeded.

Uther the Lightbringer sets out with the 1st Alliance Army to defeat the Blackrock clan in the Hillsbrad provinces. Prince Arthas Menethil joins him. Valdar Justax is transferred to the 1st Army. The orcs are defeated.

The Prophet visits Dalaran

_Mid Spring_ The first undead attacks begin at Castle Thoradin Pointe.

The Plague spreads southward into Alterac and eastern Lordaeron. Cyrus Faim'las travels to Lordaeron to research the Plague.

Jaina Proudmoore and Arthas Menethil begin to track the Plague to its sources. They first encounter Kel'thuzad. The necromancer is slain in a subsequent encounter.

Valdar Justax experiences his first true battle at Andorhol. King Terenas issues a quarantine of the Northern provinces far too late. Hearthglen is beset by an undead siege.

The Battle of Hearthglen is won by the arrival of Uther and the Knights of the Silver Hand. Arthas and Uther travel east to Stratholme.

En route to Stratholme, the Prophet attempts to influence Arthas. He fails.

Arthas orders the purging of Stratholme. Uther the Lightbringer and Jaina Proudmoore refuse. Arthas disbands the paladin orders. Valdar Justax meets Knecht Claudius of the Knights Luminary. Jaina Proudmoore is approached by the Prophet.

Arthas sails to Northrend.

The Syndicate infiltrates Stromgarde.

_Late Spring_

Jaeger Lorydist plots with the Cult of the Damned to overthrow the Menethil dynasty.

The 6th Army encounters the bulk of the Scourge and engages it in the Battle of Corrin's Crossing. It is a catastrophic loss for the Alliance.

Uther the Lightbringer is given command over all Alliance forces. Undead armies continue to rise with stunning frequency, throwing off the rigid and unprepared militaries of the living.

Arthas arrives in Northrend.

Gilneas closes its borders.

Jaina Proudmoore establishes of political stronghold in the city of Port Hope's Rise.

_**Summer, 614**_

_Early Summer_

Jaina Proudmoore visits Stromgarde to gain followers for her expedition.

Arthas encounters Muradin Bronzebeard. The two follow the Scourge deep into Northrend before being surrounded. King Terenas sends word for the expedition to be recalled. Arthas orders the ships burned so that none of his men may comply.

The first battles of the Grace Fields are fought. Valdar Justax is given his first command.

Surrounded, Arthas is driven to desperation. He and Muradin seek out the runeblade Frostmourne. Upon taking it, Muradin is supposedly killed.

Arthas slays Mal'ganis in single combat and disappears into the snows of Northrend.

The war continues. The 15th Alliance Army is completely routed in the Battle of Trezibon

_Late Summer_

Uther the Lightbringer leads the Alliance to a smashing victory in the Battle of Allin Ford. The Alliance is lulled into a false sense of security.

Arthas Menethil returns to Lordaeron and slays his father, King Terenas Menethil II.

Jaeger Lorydist initiates the Lordaeron Civil War by arranging the death of the Chamber of Highlords.

The Scourge, which had lain dormant in the late summer months, attacks Lordaeron with full force. The Alliance military is scattered. A great panic sweeps the nation.

Cyrus Faim'las is swept up in columns of refugees moving southward.

The orcs land in Kalimdor. Scattered, they attempt to reunite themselves.

_**Autumn, 614**_

_Early Autumn_

Arthas reappears, leading the Scourge in the decimation of Lordaerel villages.

Cyrus Faim'las reaches Port Hope's Rise and meets Jaina Proudmoore.

Jaeger Lorydist is betrayed and slain by the Cult of the Damned.

The Third Battle of the Grace Fields occurs (decisive Scourge victory). Valdar Justax is gravely wounded and meets Ellena.

Arthas is instructed to revive Kel'thuzad in the Sunwell. He leads a systematic hunt of all remaining paladins.

Uther the Lightbringer is slain in single combat by Arthas Menethil. Deprived of its hero and general as well as its king, Lordaeron's last organized resistance collapses.

Jaina Proudmoore departs Lordaeron with her followers.

Grom Hellscream and Thrall are reunited.

_Late Autumn_

The solitary paladins of the Grand Cathedral enter the war under the command of the Ashbringer Mograine.

The Civil War begins to wind down.

Lordegarde falls. Andorhol falls for a final time. Corrin's Crossing is razed.

Tyr's Hand is besieged.

The Scourge's main body moves towards Quel'thalas, leaving only sporadic undead behind.

Many towns begin to fend for themselves. One of these is Darrowshire.

Quel'thalas is invaded.

Sylvanas Windrunner leads a desperate series of battles; Goldenmist Village, Greenwood, and the Three Gates.

The fourth and final battle of the Grace Fields concludes in the scattering of the 6th Army. General Volsung is slain. Knecht Claudius and the Knights Luminary are slain. Ellena and Valdar escape.

The Lar'ledun Fortresses (the Sun Forts) in Quel'thalas fall to the Scourge.

Katrana Prestor appears in the courts of Stormwind as a minor noble from a backwater province. Her personal charm enchants many.

After weeks of valiant defense, Silvermoon is sacked and razed to the ground. Sylvanas Windrunner is slain. King Anasterian Sunstrider is slain. An elf named Alaric'quel escapes the fall of the city. Kel'thuzad is revived as a lich. Sylvanas Windrunner is revived as a banshee.

Gavinn Garithos gathers his own personal army in the fortified city of Wallaceburg.

The orcs meet the tauren and learn of the Oracle.

_**Winter, 614**_

_Early Winter_

The worst winter in memory besets Lordaeron.

Jaina Proudmoore and her people march north as the Prophet had told them to.

Ellena and Valdar fall in with a refugee group. Valdar is read his fortune.

What is left of the Alliance armies begins to retreat southward.

The Blackrock clan is defeated by the Scourge. Contact is made with Archimonde.

Valdar Justax rides north to gather those he can to resist the Scourge.

The first battle of Dalaran occurs. Archimonde is summoned, and the Burning Legion invades Azeroth for a second time. Dalaran is ruined. Antonidas is slain. Prince Sirael Trollbane is slain.

Jaina Proudmoore and her flotilla land in Kalimdor.

Valdar Justax forms the Dogs of War with the bandits, soldiers, and volunteers he finds.

Darrowshire defends itself from Horgus.

Haures appears in Lordaeron to lead the Scourge and Legion there as Archimonde and Mannaroth invade Kalimdor.

_**Winter, 615**_

_Late Winter_

Cyrus Faim'las is inducted into the Excubitores by Dragias the Proprietor.

The expedition under Jaina is attacked by the Warsong clan.

The battle between orcs and the Alliance reaches an impasse.

The orcs first enter Ashenvale. The Warsong Clan encounters the night elves.

The Battle of Northdale (Lordaeron) occurs.

Women join the Dogs of War's ranks. Osra joins the Dogs of War.

The Dogs of War defend the Alteran Pass.

Haures lays waste to Castle Perres. Ellena is slain.

Thrall and Jaina both enter the Stonetalon Caverns and encounter the Prophet.

A tenuous pact is agreed upon by the Alliance and Horde. Both rest and gather their stragglers.

The Warsong Clan is corrupted once again by Mannaroth's blood.

Thrall learns of Hellscream's corruption.

The final Battle of Darrowshire occurs. All defenders are slain. Carlin Redpath spreads word of its heroic last stand.

_**Spring, 615**_

_Early Spring_

The Horde and Alliance Expedition set north, encountering the corrupted Warsong.

The Burning Legion invades Kalimdor.

The Dogs of War link up with the Alliance forces at Thoradin's Wall. The Combined Armies are formed.

The Battle of Thoradin's Wall takes place (tactical Alliance loss). The Excubitores reveal themselves.

Stromgarde is invaded by the Burning Legion.

The Warsong clan is freed from demonic corruption. Thrall and Grom encounter Mannaroth in single combat. Grom Hellscream is slain. Mannaroth is slain.

Tyrande Whisperwind leads a successful counterattack on the orcs and Alliance pact forces.

Rogir Helmsworth of the Dogs of War dies from his wounds.

The Burning Legion invades Ashenvale.

Strom is besieged by the Burning Legion.

The Combined Armies are forced into a fighting retreat across Stromgarde.

The dwarven contingent from Ironforge reinforces the Combined Armies. The Alliance makes a stand at the Battle of the Thandol Span (Alliance strategic victory). The Alliance gains the initiative.

Astranaar is sacked by the Burning Legion.

Tyrande Whisperwind leads the Sentinels into battle against the Legion in eastern Ashenvale.

Tyrande Whisperwind awakens the druids. Furion Stormrage awakens from the Emerald Dream and defeats a Scourge army single-handedly.

The Battle of the Arathi Highlands takes place in Stromgarde. The Excubitores return. Dragias initiates single combat with the demon lord Haures. Cyrus Faim'las enters the battle. Dragias is slain. Haures is wounded and retreats. Cyrus Faim'las joins the Dogs of War.

Furion Stormrage awakens the druids of the Claw and Talon. Illidan Stormrage is freed by Tyrande Whisperwind.

Furion and his druids cleanse the Moonglade.

Stormwind's forces arrive under General Marcus Jonathan.

The Alliance goes on the offensive on all fronts from Stromgarde to Hillsbrad. Disorganized and without leadership, most elements of the Scourge retreat to Dalaran. Newt Tallheart is gravely wounded.

_Late Spring_

Strom is saved from siege.

Stromgarde is cleansed of Scourge and the Burning legion.

The paladins of the Grand Monastery join the Combined Armies.

Illidan Stormrage encounters Arthas Menethil and learns of the Skull of Gul'dan.

The Alliance reorganizes for its assault on Alterac and Dalaran. Kael'thas and his elves join the Combined Armies.

Illidan Stormrage acquires the Skull of Gul'dan. Tichondrious is slain. Illidan is exiled.

_**Malfurion Stormrage, Tyrande Whisperwind, Thrall, and Jaina Proudmoore are brought together by the Prophet to form a Grand Alliance against the Legion.**_

_**Summer, 615**_

The Second Battle of Dalaran begins. Alexandros Mograine defeats Kazzak. Thorr Steelhewer is slain, Alain Serath is slain, Archmage Belinda is slain, the Combined Armies open up a second front. The Dogs of War attack the rear of Dalaran via the river behind it.

Haures is slain, Thorek Ghent is slain, Valdar Justax dies of wounds. Major combat in the eastern theater concludes.

The Grand Alliance of Orcs, Tauren, Night Elves, Humans, High Elves, Dwarves, Furbolgs, and more prepare for the final assault of the Legion on Mount Hyjal.

The Battle of Mount Hyjal begins.

The Alliance Expedition delays the Legion and Scourge long enough for the Horde to move into position. Thrall wounds Archimonde. The night elves engage the Legion.

Archimonde and Furion Stormrage duel.

Archimonde is slain as the World Tree implodes.

The Third War officially ends.

(_Author's Note: And thus the Third War ends. This has by far been the longest story I have ever written, and the most effort I have ever put into a literary work. However much work it was though, and however long it seemed it would take in those early days, I am so glad that I completed it to its fullest. _

_This story has been a milestone in my life, and it wasn't possible to come this far without the support of the fanfiction community and my good friend High Elf Swordsman. _

_To everyone who has continued to read throughout the years, I thank you again. This story is now complete, but its spirit and morals will live on I hope, in the hearts of its fans. I will now be able to start writing other fictions which I have had planned, so stay in touch, and in the future I believe I will see many of you again. For now though, I will take a brief hiatus from writing to get my creative juices flowing again._

_Farewell for the moment, friends. Stay awesome._

_ -Omegatrooper)_


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